Vernon's Lament
by abhayakara
Summary: What if there was a reason that the Dursleys were so awful? Not an excuse, just a human story? And what if something happened, say on Dudley's sixth birthday, that broke the pattern and rearranged the relationships we're familiar with in the Dursley's home? This fic tries to humanize every character: not to make them all good, but to make them make more sense.
1. A Birthday to Remember

**A Birthday To Remember**

Sitting on the couch in Mrs. Figg's house, Harry felt a weird sort of loneliness as he listened for the sound of the Dursleys' car returning from Dudley's sixth birthday outing. The Dursleys sometimes "forgot" to pick him up from Mrs. Figg, but it seemed as if they were out a lot later than usual.

Finally Mrs. Figg said "Harry, let's go back over to the Dursley's. We can put you in bed, and they'll get home when they get home. I can't stay up any later."

So, the two of them walked over to Number 4. The door was locked, but Harry fished the key out from under the potted plant and let himself in, thanking Mrs. Figg for taking care of him all day.

* * *

With no-one to notice, he helped himself to a slice of bread and some cheese, not enough to be noticed if anyone went looking, but enough to quiet the growling in his stomach. Satisfied, he crawled into the cupboard and went to sleep.

The next morning Harry got up, as he usually did, before sunrise, to get started in the kitchen. He checked to see if the Dursleys had returned, but there was no car in the driveway, and he couldn't hear Vernon or Dudley snoring.

Not knowing what to do, he began to prepare breakfast. This had become his normal ritual recently, and he was rather proud of himself for being able to fry an egg, heat up some beans and tomato halves, and sizzle sausages. He was very careful around the sausages, having burned himself a bit in the hot oil once or twice while serving them.

Unfortunately, nobody showed up to eat. He had only made enough to get started, but that was still quite a bit, so after waiting for a while, he sat down and ate it. It had gotten cold while he waited for the Dursleys, but it was still good, and also quite a bit larger than any breakfast he could remember. He had to sit and digest for a while before he could clean up. Apparently there was such a thing as too much breakfast—who knew?

When he was done cleaning up, there was nothing to do, and no-one to yell at him. Even though he could hear the sounds of life going on outside, the silence in the house felt as solid as stone. Loneliness washed over him, like a soft, grey, anxious blanket. He sat quietly in the living room for what seemed like hours, listening for the sound of the car.

From time to time, a car would go by, but none stopped. He finally roused himself and went outside to work in the garden. Petunia had taught him to weed, and because it got him out of the house and away from the glares and unkind looks that Petunia and Vernon often sent his way, he had come to look forward to it.

For a while, the sun came out, and he felt better. The warm golden glow helped to dispel the gloomy feeling of anxiety in his chest. But there was only so much weeding left to do, and when the clouds rolled in again and the temperature dropped, the loneliness and anxiety came back full force.

* * *

Finally, in the late afternoon, Harry heard a car pull up outside. It was a police car. Vernon got out, along with a police constable. They opened the back of the car and helped Dudley out of the back seat. To Harry's surprise, Dudley had a cast on his leg, and had to be helped onto crutches.

Vernon's expression wasn't familiar to Harry. He looked… actually kind of the way Harry sometimes felt when Vernon called him a freak, or Petunia yelled at him. Harry felt a weird sort of sympathy rise up in him. He held the door for Dudley, who made his way rather slowly across the threshold.

The constable said his goodbyes to Vernon, then Vernon and Harry followed Dudley inside. Vernon collapsed in his favourite chair with a sigh, and said "Harry, would you please make dinner?"

Harry went to work, happy to finally have an assignment. A half hour later, he brought out a dinner of steak and potatoes and green beans, the usual Dursley meal. Vernon sat down and started serving himself. Dudley made his way over to the table, and nearly fell down as he pulled out the chair to sit down. Harry managed to catch him, and helped him sit.

Looking up at Harry, Vernon said, "serve yourself and start eating before it gets cold, Harry. We need to have a talk."

Harry sat down at the table, wondering what was coming. He served himself a small portion and began to eat, glancing at Vernon every few bites to make sure that he wasn't in trouble. Dudley was uncharacteristically quiet.

Vernon finished what was on his plate. Then he looked up at Harry, with that same unfamiliar expression. His face was pale, not the usual red. "There was an accident yesterday. You can see that Dudley's leg is broken. Your aunt is in the hospital. She's in a coma. they don't know when she'll wake up."

* * *

On the morning of Dudley's birthday, the house was a bustle of activity. Harry had to prepare for a day over at Mrs. Figg's house, but before that he had to prepare breakfast for the Dursleys.

Petunia had been training Harry for several years to do as much work around the house as possible. Although Harry could not safely pick up a hot frying pan full of grease (which, sad to say, he and Petunia had learned the hard way), he had gained quite a bit of skill at frying things in it.

So as Petunia packed the car for the day's excursion, Harry fried bacon, eggs, halved tomatoes and a few small potatoes, deftly turned them out onto plates and carefully transferred them to the table, using two hands at all times and looking carefully where he walked (another habit learned through unfortunate trial and error).

Dudley was already at the breakfast table. He too had learned that if he poked Harry while Harry had a plate in his hand, he would have to eat later, since Harry would inevitably drop the plate. So Dudley kept his hands to himself until the plate was safely on the table, at which point he reached out to jab Harry, who dodged ably and went back to the stove to make Vernon's breakfast.

By the time Harry got to eat, Petunia was done packing the car, and had nearly finished her own breakfast. Vernon glared at Harry and said "eat quickly, boy, we need to get you over to Mrs. Figg so that we can get going."

In a generous attempt to help speed things along, Dudley speared several potatoes and some bacon off of Harry's plate as he was eating. Harry managed to wolf down an egg , two slices of bacon and a slice of toast before Dudley had cleaned his plate.

The plan for Dudley's birthday was first to get in the obligatory visit to Aunt Marge, have lunch at a family-oriented restaurant in Staines, and then go to the Cinema in Staines_. _Finally, there would be an afternoon birthday party with some of Dudley's friends. The day was scheduled rather tightly, because Marge's house was not close by.

The drive to Aunt Marge's house went well: although it was a Monday morning, they left the house in time to miss the worst of the traffic, and got to Marge's house safely. Dudley, rather full from his and Harry's breakfast, had a nice nap in the car until they were nearly there.

* * *

As they got out of the car, Marge rushed up, trailed by an adorable bulldog puppy. Dudley went immediately to the puppy, completely ignoring Marge. Vernon and Petuna exchanged knowing looks and quickly distracted Marge with a story about Harry's misbehaviour.

Dudley, meanwhile, got along famously with the pup until it got a little bit too excited (perhaps as a result of Dudley bending one of his legs the wrong way) and nipped Dudley's nose. In the meltdown that followed, Harry was forgotten, and the puppy was bundled off to a pen in the backyard.

When she returned, Marge looked rather pleased, and announced that she had decided to name the puppy "Ripper." Petunia, who thought the little monster should be put down, bit her lip and sat quietly comforting Dudley, who had had a rather impressive tantrum, but Vernon could not restrain himself.

"I can't see how you can be so proud of the pup when he's viciously attacked your own nephew," Vernon raged. "When he bites someone's leg off, are you going to give him a special house?"

Marge was unmoved. "The boy needs to toughen up. Look at him, having a good cry like that. He shouldn't be crying unless one of his limbs is dangling by a thread. What kind of a man are you raising, Vernon? Why didn't the boy fight back?"

The sniping went on for some time until Dudley perked up and demanded to know where his presents were. "Now there's some good thinking," Marge said approvingly. "Come into the sitting room—I have them on the table."

Still wrapped, it looked like a decent haul, but Dudley was disappointed to discover that his gifts consisted mostly of several jumpers in rather dismal shades of brown and green, two pairs of socks, a colouring book about the second Boer War, and a backgammon set, which Dudley didn't quite know what to make of.

But then, to his delight, one last gift was presented: a rather long, thin package that was quite heavy, and turned out to contain an air rifle. Delighted, Dudley immediately rushed outside, with a quick smile to Aunt Marge, and began taking shots at Ripper through the chain link fence.

"That boy will go places," Marge remarked. "I can see him in the military. Just needs to develop some backbone, but I can see that that's coming."

The ride back to Staines was uneventful. Traffic was light, Dudley quite enjoyed playing with his new rifle, and the occasional sharp bang as it went off only caused a few small swerves. Vernon happily scolded Dudley each time, Petunia covered her ears, and everyone was quite satisfied.

Dudley was not impressed by the movie. It was a story of a cat and a dog who were somehow friends, and then got separated and had to find each other. "Utter nonsense," Dudley thought, although he did enjoy imagining taking pot shots at the animals as they went on their way.

* * *

When the movie was over, the Dursleys went back to the car. The back window was broken, and the rifle was missing. Dudley had a fit. "Why did you leave my rifle in the car? I wanted to take it with me, but you wouldn't let me, and now it's gone!" On and on he raged, as Petunia tried to quiet him, and Vernon navigated out of the car park and back onto the A308 for the trip home.

Unfortunately, the noise from Dudley was such a distraction that Vernon missed seeing the lorry approaching in the roundabout. Vernon had just enough time to look up and see the lorry bearing down on them in the rear-view mirror, and then…

There was a loud crash, the sounds of tires scrubbing on pavement, more breaking glass, and finally a loud thud as the car came to a stop against a tree in the middle of the roundabout.

Vernon, dazed, looked at his hands on the steering wheel, which were covered with blood, and then to his left to see Petunia slumped, her side of the car a bit crushed, out cold. "Mum? MUM?" cried Dudley. He reached to shake her, but Vernon put his hand on Dudley's to stop him. "Sit back, Dudley, let me see how she is."

Petunia seemed to be breathing, but didn't respond when Vernon called her name. Reluctantly, he tried slapping the back of her hand to see if that would wake her, but it didn't. Not even a moan of protest.

By this time, the lorry driver had collected himself and come to investigate. Several other bystanders had also rushed to the car and were trying to get Petunia's door open. It was stuck.

Dudley tried to get out of the car, but found that his leg was quite badly hurt. He tried to stand on it, but there was a terrible pain, and he collapsed. As he sat on the ground crying from the pain, a nice lady came up to help. She had run up to see what had happened after the accident. She helped him to sit up and just held him in a gentle hug, looking to Vernon to see what to do.

Vernon, however, was in no shape to be thinking about what to do. His head was bleeding quite profusely, and he felt dazed. The light was bright, and there were too many people, and Petunia wasn't there to help. Petunia! What was wrong with Petunia?

A police car pulled up. Two officers hopped out and began shooing people away from the crash. One of the officers noticed that Petunia was unconscious and started talking urgently on his radio, uttering words that Vernon couldn't quite follow. The other officer came over to check on Vernon and Dudley.

After what seemed like quite a long time, but was probably only a minute or two, an ambulance pulled up. Paramedics rushed out, took in the scene, and called for a second ambulance. Vernon and Dudley were put in neck braces, which were quite uncomfortable, and then Dudley was set up on a stretcher, shrieking a bit with the pain in his leg when they moved him. When he was finally lying down on the stretcher, he seemed relieved, but so small.

There was a flurry of activity by the car: Petunia was still trapped in the car, now in a neck brace, and the paramedics were setting up a rather impressive gadget that sounded like chainsaw, using it to pry open the door to get access.

Finally, they were able to get the door off. They attached a board to Petunia with some broad straps, and then two paramedics very carefully and slowly maneuvered her out of the car and onto a stretcher, where she lay quietly.

Despite her pallor, to Vernon she seemed like the most beautiful and precious thing in the world, and in that moment he realized that he was terrified that she might be really hurt. He though he would give anything, anything at all, to see her wake up and be whole again.


	2. Consequences

The ambulance was a blur of noise and confusion. Vernon couldn't seem to focus, and he felt a bit queasy. He and Dudley were both in neck braces, which seemed unnecessary. Petunia was on a gurney in the center of the ambulance, with two medical technicians bent over her, speaking urgently to one another, peeling back eyelids and shining flashlights in them, reciting statistics into the radio.

The ride to the NHS hospital was mercifully short, and soon they were once again being rushed out of the ambulance and into the emergency arena. Vernon felt a deep spike of anxiety stab down his chest as Petunia's gurney was rushed into the bowels of the hospital by a nurse and a technician, but when he tried to follow a nurse held him back and directed him to a bed. Dudley was placed in the bed next to him.

A few minutes later, a competent looking woman strode up and introduced herself as Dr. Thomas. "You are Mr. Dursley," she asked?

"Yes. What has happened to my wife?"

"Petunia Dursley, twenty-eight, trauma to the head, vitals normal," Doctor Thomas recited, then looked more closely at Vernon and seemed to focus on him for the first time. "Sorry, old habits. She's had a significant trauma to the head. She's unconscious, which is not good, but her vitals are normal, which is. We have her in imaging to get a picture of the brain and see if there is any swelling."

"Injuries of this type are difficult to diagnose. Unfortunately, the best we can do is make sure that any immediate swelling is taken care of, and wait for her to regain consciousness. If she regains consciousness in the next few hours, that's a good sign, but we won't know until she does."

"In the meantime, we need to take a look at you, and at the boy. The medical technicians believe that you have a concussion, so I'm going to do a quick exam. " She asked Vernon a rapid series of questions, nodding or hmming after each answer. "We need to keep you here overnight for observation. You have a mild concussion. I'll go check on the boy now."

While Dr. Thomas had been interviewing Vernon, Dudley had been wheeled off; he got back just as the interview ended. After a few minutes of poking and prodding, and a few rather gruesome winces from Dudley, who, surprisingly, did not put up a fuss in front of the unfamiliar doctor, Dr. Thomas came back to Vernon.

"What's wrong with Dudley?" Vernon asked anxiously.

"His leg is broken. It's a greenstick fracture, which means that the bone didn't break all the way through. We should be able to align it properly without too much trouble. He's going to require a cast, and you'll have to bring him back in a few weeks for another X-ray. I would not expect for there to be any long-term consequences."

"Dudley's an active boy! Is he going to be able to play sports this year?"

"I wouldn't advise it until he's had a few months to heal. When the cast comes off, he'll be weak in that leg for a while. While it's on, it's going to get in his way a lot, so he'll need assistance. Do you have any other children at home who can help?"

"His cousin…" Vernon said thoughtfully.

"Well, no matter, the nurses will sort you out when it comes time to discharge you, but as I say you'll have to stay the night."

"What about my car?"

"What I heard didn't sound encouraging, but you'll have to talk to the police—there was an officer waiting to talk to you, but I advised him to come back tomorrow morning when you've had a bit of a rest. Not that you'll get much sleep tonight with that concussion, but with any luck you'll at least feel a bit more yourself in the morning."

Vernon felt an urge to argue with Dr. Thomas, but he really was not feeling himself, and his brief protest died quickly for the simple fact that no words came to mind.

~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~

* * *

Vernon did not have a very good night's sleep. It seemed that the nurses had to check on him every half hour or so to make sure he could wake up properly, and to check his symptoms. He'd gotten progressively crabbier with each awakening; to add insult to injury, the nurses seemed to take this as a positive sign, and weren't bothered by it.

They had very kindly put Vernon, Petunia and Dudley all in a triple room, which kept Vernon's worry about Petunia down to a dull beat of anxiety—she seemed at least to be resting and not in any sort of crisis.

When Dudley woke up (he had slept blissfully through the night, as far as Vernon could tell), he began watching a quite annoying children's show on the telly. Vernon's first impulse was to tell him to turn it off, because he had quite a headache, but years of experience told him that Dudley watching the telly was probably less trouble than Dudley not watching the telly.

Breakfast came and went. Petunia still hadn't woken up. Vernon started to get more and more worried as the morning progressed. Finally Doctor Thomas showed up and checked on her. After looking at her chart and checking her pupils, she came over to see Vernon.

"Petunia's had a significant trauma to the head. There is some bruising. The swelling isn't too bad, but you should prepare yourself for the possibility that there has been some damage to the brain. Until she wakes up, we can't tell how much she will have been affected, but you should prepare yourself for a long recovery."

Vernon's heard sank. "When will she wake up?"

"We don't know. Brain injuries are capricious. Sometimes the person wakes up quickly, sometimes it can take a week or even longer. Let's check out you now, shall we?"

After some more questions and a bit of poking, prodding, and lights in the eyes, Dr. Thomas pronounced Vernon fit for departure in the afternoon. "You'll need to take Dudley with you, but Petunia will of course have to stay here at least until she wakes up."

Vernon had managed to pretend to himself that everything was going to be okay, but suddenly everything was very much not going to be okay. Petunia wasn't coming home. Dudley was going to be on crutches. The weight of responsibility was suddenly crushing.

Who could he turn to for help? Friends? He didn't really have any good friends. Family? With his and Petunia's parents gone all these years, all he had left was Marge. Hah! Marge would probably throttle them in their sleep. Survival of the fittest, after all. Or feed them to her hounds, even more likely.

Looking back over the past seven years, since the tragedy at the wedding, Vernon realized just how much of a hash he'd made of things. That one horrible event had send him and Petunia together down a dark and friendless path, and now here they were reaping the consequences.

Lost in thought, he didn't hear the constable talking to him until he tapped Vernon on his shoulder. "Mr. Dursley, I need to talk to you about the accident." Consequences indeed.

~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~

* * *

"There was an accident yesterday," said Vernon. "You can see that Dudley's leg is broken. Your aunt is in the hospital. She's in a coma. They don't know when she'll wake up."

"Is she going to be okay?" Harry asked.

If Harry didn't know better, he would have thought Vernon was about to cry. "No, she's not okay, Harry. She was seriously injured. They don't know when she's going to wake up. Even when she does, she won't be able to come back and take care of you and Dudley."

Without thinking, Harry got up and rushed over to Vernon, tears beginning to roll down his cheeks, and hugged him. "What do you need me to do, Uncle Vernon? I can help! Can I see Aunt Tuni?"

To Harry's complete shock, Vernon suddenly did start crying. Sobbing, actually. Not knowing what to do, Harry just held on and waited. Dudley looked at the two of them as if they'd both sprouted antlers. He'd been in the process of taking a bit of steak, but he froze, the fork midway between plate and mouth, his eyes round, and then calmly set the fork down on the plate, reached over, and took his father's hand. "_We'll_ help," he said.

After a bit, Vernon dabbed his cheeks and blew his nose, and the trio sat back down, each of them a bit uncomfortable with what had just happened. But Vernon pulled himself together and said "thank you both. But we need more help, I think. Harry, do you think that Mrs. Figg would be willing to help out?"

Harry thought about it. "I think so. She's never very busy. I can go ask her?"

"Thanks, Harry. That would be great. Let's finish dinner first."

Arabella Figg was, at that moment, sitting down to her own dinner. The cats were all fed, the owl had flown off to Dumbledore with news that something was up with the Dursleys, and she was looking forward to a quiet evening, when the doorbell rang. It was Harry.

"Mrs. Figg, something really bad has happened. Aunt Tuni is hurt! Can you come see Uncle Vernon?"

Looking a bit woefully at her dinner, she nodded, got up, and put it in the refrigerator. She ushered Harry back outside, closed up the house, and together they walked over to Number Four. No car outside. Hmm.

Harry led her in to the living room, where Vernon and Dudley were seated. Vernon rose and welcomed her, offering her a seat. "Mrs. Figg, Petunia is in the hospital in a coma. We don't know when she will wake up. They think she will need some significant recovery time. I'm terribly sorry to even ask, but I have no-one to turn to. Is there any way I could impose upon you to watch the children while I'm at work until Petunia recovers? I would be happy to pay for your time. Or if you know someone…"

"Don't be silly," Mrs. Figg interrupted. "Of course I'll help, and you don't have to pay me. All I'm doing over on Wisteria Lane is taking care of my cats. How much more trouble can two such well-behaved boys be?"

Vernon's eyes bulged, but he managed not to say what popped into his head. Instead, he managed to say "thank you so much, Mrs. Figg. I don't know what I'd do…"

"And you'll have to stop calling me Mrs. Figg. You'll make me feel like an old bat. Call me Bella."

"Thank you, Bella, and of course please call me Vernon."

When Bella had left, and Harry and Dudley had gone to bed, Vernon was finally able to go to bed himself. He was feeling much better than he had the previous night, physically. Emotionally, he still felt a bit like a very large elephant was sitting on his chest. But sleep came quickly.

~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~

* * *

He woke in the morning to the sound of the telephone ringing. It was the insurance company, asking when to bring by a hired car for him to drive while the claim was being processed. That settled, he went downstairs to find Harry feeding Dudley a small breakfast. As promised, Dudley was "helping out," at least in the sense that he was eating it and not giving Harry a hard time.

Harry dished him out a small omelet, then started in on his own breakfast. While he was cooking, he asked Vernon, "when can we see Aunt Tuni?"

"We'll all go over to the hospital after I get home from work," Vernon answered. "My car is coming in a few minutes, and then I'm going to have to go in and see if the place has caught fire while I've been away." Vernon wasn't _too_ worried that it had caught fire, but you never knew. Looking back on the past few years, he realized that he'd driven away some of his best people, and what he had left to work with weren't the sharpest knives in the drawer.

Yet another thing to think about, if and when things settled down at home.

Bella showed up a few minutes later. "Hi, Mrs. Figg, do you want an omelet?" Harry shouted cheerfully. Vernon winced, still a bit headachy, but, not wanting to discourage Harry's enthusiasm, he kept quiet.

Bella politely demurred. "Vernon, what do you think the schedule is going to be like today?"

"I'm heading to work in a few minutes, and I should be back not too late. I'll take Harry and Dudley to see Petunia. The hospital says she still hasn't woken up, but they'll call right away if she does, and they have my work number, so if she wakes up I'll call you before I head over there."

"Okay, do what you need to do. My cats are fed, and I can stay later than that if you need me to." Bella privately hoped that it wouldn't come to that—Dumbledore wasn't paying her _that _well. But she knew the importance of protecting Harry, and she would do her duty. Vernon was a bit of a lump, but he was really on his best behavior, so she couldn't complain.

"Thanks so much—you are truly a godsend," Vernon said as he walked out the door to take delivery of the hired car.


	3. Finding Petunia

Harry felt a little bit bad for enjoying the new circumstances. Suddenly Vernon was being nice to him. Mrs. Figg (he could not imagine calling her Bella) was sitting for him without him having to go over to her house. But Aunt Tuni was sick.

Aunt Tuni wasn't very nice to him, but she was as close to a mother as he had now. He could barely remember his real mother. Sometimes he'd have a memory of her green eyes and red hair, or the smell of her as she held him close, but these were always fleeting, never something he could bring up when he needed her.

So Aunt Tuni was it. She didn't seem to like him, but she took care of him. She taught him things. He missed that. When she showed him how to cook something new, or how to weed, he felt at least for a moment like he was part of the family, like he was _wanted._ It never lasted, but it was better than nothing. And now that was gone.

The day went by very slowly. Dudley was pretty good at first, but as the afternoon wore on, his temper slowly frayed. When Vernon got home, promptly at five, he opened the door to see Dudley poking Mrs. Figg with one of his crutches, as Mrs. Figg glared at him, looking like she was about to explode and break his other leg.

Without realizing it, Vernon found himself launching into Dudley the way he usually did into Harry. Dudley had never seen this side of his father directed at him, and immediately exploded into tears. Vernon heard himself saying "Dudley Dursley, you behave right now! This is how we got into this situation! If you hadn't thrown a temper tantrum when your air rifle was stolen, your mom wouldn't be in the hospital!" The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.

Dudley went silent and pale. "I know," he said. "Mum is gone, and it's my fault. If she dies, it's my fault. I miss her, and it's my fault." And then he just sat there and stared at nothing, looking very small and lost.

Vernon's heart broke. He was used to it now. "No, Dudley. I was driving, not you. I wasn't paying attention. Yes, you were yelling, but it was my job to pay attention, even if you were yelling. Come on, let's go see your mother."

Dudley didn't seem at all comforted, but he got up, with his crutches, and Harry got up with him. They all got into the car, Dudley with a bit of effort made worse because it seemed like he was determined to disappear into himself. Harry sat next to him and leaned in a bit. Dudley looked at him, then looked down, then seemed to collect himself. The ride to the hospital was completely silent, Vernon staring ahead, Harry not sure what to do about Dudley, Dudley off in his own world.

When they got to the hospital, they slowly made their way to Petunia's room. She was in a real room now, not an emergency room cubicle. Although there was a second bed in the room, there was nobody in it. Various monitors were attached to her, beeping and blooping. She lay there, completely still. She had two black eyes. She looked terrible.

Harry walked up to her and held her hand, wishing more than anything that he could see her eyes open, that he could hear her say something, even something unkind, as long as she was back. But she just lay there quietly. Vernon went to the other side and sat in a chair there, holding her hand, looking lost. Dudley sat down in another chair and just looked at her, saying nothing.

Vernon started to talk.

"Harry, Dudley, there are some things about your family that we haven't told you. We told you that Harry's parents died in a car crash. That's not true. The reason we don't talk about it is that what happened to them frightened us so much that we just wanted to forget it. But we were wrong not to tell you, especially you, Harry."

Harry perked up. He'd already been interested in what Vernon was saying, but to hear Vernon talking about his parents, not in a mean way, but as if he knew them, as if they were real people… This was new. But what had frightened Uncle Vernon? Uncle Vernon was not a small man. Harry couldn't imagine anything that would frighten him.

"Harry, your parents died in a war. A secret war, a war that you will never hear about in the history books in school. They were killed using magic."

"Magic?" Harry asked. "What do you mean, magic? You mean like magic tricks or something? How can magic tricks kill someone?"

"There's a kind of magic, Harry, that's real, and not a trick. Some people are able to use magic. These people are called witches and wizards."

"You mean with pointy hats and magic wands and broomsticks, like on Hallowe'en?" Harry asked.

"Something like that, yes. And Harry, your father was a wizard. And your mother was a witch."

Harry's face fell. "So they were evil, then? Is that why they were killed?"

"No, Harry. They were perfectly ordinary people, aside from their magic."

"Then why did they die?"

"They died protecting you from a very evil wizard. It's because of them that you are still alive. And, if I am going to be honest here, it's because of them that Petunia and I, and Dudley, are still alive, too."

"My parents were heroes!" Harry thought to himself. "Not drunks. Not bad people. Heroes." "Why did you tell me they were drunks, then?" he asked.

"Because we were afraid. Witches and wizards have powers. They can do things to us, and we can't defend ourselves. So many terrible things had happened, we just wanted to forget about it, to not talk about it, to live as if it had never happened. I'm sorry, Harry, I have no excuse for it. We couldn't do anything about it, so we didn't want to be reminded."

"So are evil wizards after us, then? Is that what happened to Aunt Tuni?"

"No, Harry. That really was my fault. That's what made me realize. Sure, evil wizards could show up at any moment, and there's nothing we could do. Or a giant lorry could smash the car. It doesn't matter. And I'm tired of living in fear, in denial."

Harry didn't really understand what Uncle Vernon was talking about. But he nodded. "So that's why you're telling me now?"

"No."

"Then why?"

"Because you are magical too."

"Me?"

"Yes, you."

"So I can get a magic wand, and turn people into toads?"

"That's exactly why we were afraid, Harry. How would you feel if someone turned you into a toad?"

"Like a toad, I suppose."

"But you wouldn't want to be turned into a toad, would you?"

"No."

"Now you see, then. But there are two sides to magic. One the one side, a witch or wizard can do great harm with their power. But they can also do great good."

Suddenly it all came into focus for Harry. "You want me to save Aunt Tuni."

"Yes," Vernon said, voice breaking.

"Okay."

"Okay?"

"I don't know how to do it, but if I can, I will."

"Thank you Harry," Vernon said, "I don't know if you can do it either, in fact I would be surprised if you could. But it's worth asking. If something comes to you, let me know."

They all sat in silence for a while. Petunia never moved. After an hour of this, a nurse came in and shooed them out. "Visiting hours are over. You can come back tomorrow after ten."

* * *

The next morning, when Vernon came down for breakfast, there were sausages and toast. "Why no eggs?" he asked.

"We used them all up yesterday. We still have some bread, but I had to cut off the mold, and there were sausages in the freezer. We probably have enough for tomorrow, but then I think all we have left is pasta and sauce."

"I'm sorry, Harry, I should have realized. We'll stop at the hypermarket on the way home from the hospital tonight. Do you have anything to eat for lunch?"

"Sausages and toast, or pasta."

"Okay, then. See you tonight."

* * *

After a week, Petunia still hadn't regained consciousness. Harry was starting to get frantic. Vernon hadn't said anything, but Harry knew that he had to come up with something, or Vernon was going to start hating him again. It was so nice being cared for and appreciated. He couldn't go back to that now.

Sitting at Tuni's side, he said "Aunt Tuni, please talk to me. Please send me a sign." Nothing. "Please!" Nothing. "Abra cadabra!" And then a memory flashed, a high pitched, awful voice, screeching "Avada Kedavra," and a green light flashing, and pain. Harry's felt a sudden, intense pain in the scar on his head, the one Uncle Vernon had said came from the car crash that had never happened. Harry cried out in pain, and everything went dark.

Slowly the pain subsided, but it was still dark. He felt like he was in a room, in a house, but he couldn't see anything. "Aunt Tuni?" he said.

"What? Who's there? Oh God, is someone there?"

"Aunt Tuni! Where are you?"

"Harry?"

"Yes, it's me! I can't see you!"

"I can't see you either. I've just been sitting in the dark for I don't know how long. Has it been a month?"

"No, only a week."

"Well. So where are we?"

"In a hospital."

"Why is it so dark?"

"I don't know. I was just sitting there next to you, and then everything went dark. I was holding your hand."

"I can't feel you holding my hand. Are you sure?"

"I can't feel it either. It's so dark. I wish there were some light."

Suddenly there was light. It wasn't coming from anywhere in particular. Harry looked down and could see himself. He looked around. "Aunt Tuni, can you see the light? I still don't see you."

"Yes!" Suddenly Aunt Tuni was there, in the light. She looked perfectly normal, just as she had the morning of Dudley's birthday. Harry ran to her and barreled her over. "Harry! What are you doing?"

"Oh, uh, sorry. I've been so worried. I.. forgot." Eyes downcast, Harry pulled away and shrank into himself. He'd forgotten.

Aunt Tuni started to grow farther away, even though Harry wasn't moving. "Wait, Harry, I'm sorry, I was just surprised! Come back! Please come back!"

"I will! I'm trying!" But it felt like someone was shaking him.

"Harry! Harry! Wake up!"

"Uncle Vernon?" Harry opened his eyes, and realized that he was sitting in the chair next to Aunt Tuni, and she was silent and quiet again. But she was there! Maybe this could work after all!

* * *

When Harry explained what had happened to Uncle Vernon, Vernon apologized and promised not to wake him up anymore. Harry thought Vernon looked better, but still definitely not himself, not that that was a bad thing.

Unfortunately, nothing that Harry tried got him back into the dark place. He tried saying "abra cadabra" again, but it didn't work. What was that other phrase? He couldn't remember. It was different, but his six-year-old grasp of language wasn't up to the task.

Most of a week went by. Harry was spending as much time as he could with Aunt Tuni, but he also had to cook for Dudley, who didn't seem to grasp the idea that breakfast could be made by someone other than Harry. Dudley did really seem to want to help out, Harry thought, but Uncle Vernon and Aunt Tuni had always made him do all the helping out around the house, and Dudley was just pretty useless.

Once he tried to make an omelet. Harry managed to clean up the eggs from nearly every surface in the kitchen after about an hour. Dudley complained the whole time. Uncle Vernon had already gone to work, so there was no help from him.

One day, Harry was at the hospital sitting by Aunt Tuni, wracking his brain for ideas, when a tall, thin man came in. He was dressed very neatly, but not in fancy clothes. His face had a kind, thoughtful look on it that made Harry like him immediately. He came in and said hello. Harry had never been taught not to talk to strangers, so he introduced himself and Aunt Tuni, pointing out that she couldn't speak for herself.

The man introduced himself as Colin. "I'm today's volunteer chaplain," he said.

"What's a chaplain?" asked Harry.

"We're here to see to patients' spiritual needs. The hospital is a scary place, and a lot of bad things happen here. I am here to help people to come to terms with whatever happens while they are here, if they need me. Why are you and Tuni here?"

"She was in an accident. A lorry hit her. She's in a coma."

"Oh dear, I'm sorry to hear that! Do you love her very much?"

"She's mean to me."

"So no?"

"Well, she's mean to me, but she teaches me stuff. And she's there when I need her. At least until now." Harry looked at his feet, hoping he hadn't said something bad.

"Well, it's very kind of you to sit her with her. You are a good nephew."

Harry brightened at the praise. "Thanks! I'm a wizard, you know. I'm trying to help her."

"That's very interesting," Colin said with a smile. "How do wizards help their aunts, when they are in a coma?"

"I don't know, exactly, but I was able to get through to her once. I'm trying to do it again. She is really lonely in there. I hope she isn't mad at me for taking so long to get back. I haven't figured out how to do it again."

"Oh, so you really _are_ a wizard! Well, how did you do it the first time?"

"I was kind of mad, because I had been trying for a week and nothing had happened. I tried saying magic words. Abra cadabra."

Colin flinched. "Oh my, that's not likely to help."

"But it did! It was really scary. My scar started to hurt, and I saw a green light and heard someone say the spell, only he said it differently. And then everything went dark, and there was Aunt Tuni. I talked to her for a while, but then Uncle Vernon came and shook me, and I was back out of it."

Colin looked thoughtful. "That's the first time I've heard of _that_ spell being used to help someone! It sounds like you have a memory of someone using it. Did one of your parents use it?"

"My parents are dead. My uncle told me they'd died in an accident because they were driving drunk, but then he said that they were killed by an evil wizard. He's been a lot nicer to me since the accident, you see."

A sad look on his face, Colin squeezed Harry's hand. "I think I understand what happened, Harry. Do you want to see if we can trigger it again? This won't be fun."

"Please. I don't mind. Aunt Tuni needs me."

Colin hesitated, but finally looked Harry in the eyes and said, with a tightness around his eyes, "avada kedavra."

"That was it! That's what the scary man said, before I blacked out!"

"Oh, well, I guess we'll have to try something else. Sorry about that. Maybe it's for the best. That is a truly evil spell. How old are you, Harry? Five?"

"Yeah, I turn six at the end of July."

"Hm, well, you're a bit young for this. But I think you want to try something if it might work, right?"

"Yes, please. Aunt Tuni needs me. Uncle Vernon needs her back."

"Okay. This is going to take a while. I need you to be patient, and follow my instructions carefully. But remember that what I'm asking you to do is difficult, and don't be upset if you don't get it the first time. It's really the process of trying that will work, if it works. You just have to try, and then see what happens. Does that sound okay?"

Harry looked doubtful, but agreed.

"Okay. I want you to sit up straight in the chair. Keep your hand on Tuni, but don't lean. Move your chair so you can do it comfortably."

Harry moved his chair and sat up straight.

"Okay, not too straight—you're going to be sitting like this for an hour, so make sure that you don't have to work too hard. Now, can you feel your breath moving in and out of your nose as you sit there?"

"Yes."

"Okay. I want you to just do that. Feel the breath moving in and out of your nose. No big deal. That's not the point, it's just something to keep your attention while you do this. Don't shut anything out—let the other sounds and sensations be, but keep noticing the breath at the nose."

Harry sat there trying to feel the breath at the nose. After a minute, he noticed that he was thinking about Dudley and the mess he made at breakfast. "I screwed up!"

"Oh well done, Harry! No, you didn't screw up. You've gotten to the next step. You can't really hold your attention that way without training. When you notice that it's gone, that's brilliant! That's exactly what you should do. Keep doing it. Whenever you notice, just go back to the practice."

Harry was feeling pretty chuffed by the praise, so he did as Colin asked. Time went by. He found that he was noticing faster, and that he was just paying attention to the breath most of the time now. He felt very calm, and he remembered why he was doing this: Aunt Tuni.

Suddenly everything went black again. "Aunt Tuni?"

"Harry! Harry! Oh thank god! It's been so long! Is Dudley okay? Is Vernon okay? I didn't ask before! I've been so worried! Are you okay?"

Harry didn't comment on being last—he didn't even notice.

"Dudley has a broken leg, and he made a mess at breakfast this morning, but he's going to be okay. Uncle Vernon is really sad. He misses you. He told me to tell you he loves you."

Tuni found Harry in the dark and hugged him. "Thank you so much for coming back, Harry! But I need to get out of here. I need to be back at home with you three. Who is looking after you?"

"Mrs. Figg. Vernon asked her, and she was really nice about it. Dudley's been driving her batty!"

Aunt Tuni laughed. "That's a relief. But how are you able to talk to me when Vernon can't?"

"I'm a wizard!"

Aunt Tuni was quiet for a while. Harry remembered, and wished for light. Petunia looked sad, and a little frustrated. Finally she said "yes, I guess you are," and hugged him a little tighter. "Please forgive us if we are a little tetchy about it. I know we haven't been kind to you, and it's magic that's made it hard for us."

"How come?"

"It's a long story, and a little too old for you. Part of it is that I was jealous of your mother. She was the pretty one, and that was hard enough to bear, but we were close until magic came along. Then suddenly she was off to her new world, and I couldn't follow her. I lost my sister to magic. And then we lost our parents to magic, and so did Vernon. When you say you're a wizard, that's what we remember."

She brightened. "But here you are, and that's magic too. So I'm going to just have to try. How are you feeling? Can you keep this up, or do you need to rest?"

Harry was feeling a bit peaked. "I think maybe I should come back later."

"Okay, Harry. Please come back soon. I think time passes more quickly here because I'm so alone. But you are really helping me by coming to visit. Next time maybe we can do some exploring. I've been wandering around on my own. I can show you."

"I'd like that," said Harry. "I'll see you as soon as I can."

He opened his eyes to see Vernon yelling at Colin. "What are you doing in here with Harry and Petunia? Don't disturb him! He needs his quiet!"

Colin looked at Harry wryly. "I think I may have helped him, actually. Harry, how did it go?"

"I found her again! It worked! I don't know how it worked, but it worked!"

Vernon, looking chagrined, apologized. "I'm doing that a lot lately," he said. "I've really got a lot of bad habits to unlearn, don't I?"

Colin smiled. "We all do. You're welcome to come by my center sometime. I teach meditation. It can really help with that."

"Thanks, I might," Vernon said automatically.

Harry asked, "how did you know that would work, Mr. Colin?"

"Just Colin, Harry. I'm not a wizard, but I've run into a few of them in my practice. One of the keys to magic is mindfulness. They don't really teach it systematically in wizarding schools—they just sort of tell you to concentrate, and either you figure it out or you don't. That's what I teach in my meditation center. So every so often a wizard who's a bit smarter than average knocks me up for some training."

Harry smiled happily at Colin, really liking the idea of being smarter than average. Colin rolled his eyes, but smiled back.


	4. Exploring with Petunia

To Vernon's frustration, Harry fell asleep almost immediately. When Vernon went to wake him, Colin put his hand on Vernon's arm and shook his head when Vernon looked. "You want to let him sleep now. He's very young, and his body isn't used to channeling magic.

"The good thing about young children and magic is that there's little resistance, and that helps to allow the magic to flow freely, but nevertheless their channels are very small. He will need to rest for at least a day before trying this again. You should be able to wake him up in an hour or so, but for now I'd advise you to let him rest."

Vernon's instinct was to assume that Colin was a religious nutter trying to get some new converts, but he did seem to have helped Harry, so maybe he wasn't too bad. He decided to give Colin a chance—maybe this was part of the change that he needed to make.

"Okay, but we need to get home before _too_ long or Mrs. F—Bella will murder Dudley."

"That wouldn't be good, then, would it? Who is Dudley?"

"My son. He's a good boy, but a bit of a handful."

"Well, they often are at that age, aren't they? Shall we have a cup of tea while Harry naps?"

Vernon nodded. "Sounds lovely. I'll go. How do you take it?"

"Cream, one sugar."

Vernon returned a few minutes later, feeling very virtuous. Fetching tea was definitely turning over a new leaf. He and Colin sat together in silence for a while, focusing on their tea. Harry stirred a bit in the chair from time to time, but didn't wake up.

After a while, Vernon asked, "how do you know so much about magic? You said you've had meditation students who were wizards, but those bastards are bloody secretive. If Petunia's sister hadn't been one of them, we'd have just thought they were random badly-dressed weirdos."

Colin looked at Vernon a bit warily. "The thing is, the wizards think they are the ones who know everything, but they're actually pretty naive about the rest of the world. The reason I'm at the hospital is that I volunteer as a chaplain for Buddhist patients. I began my studies with a Tibetan teacher.

"What you may not know about the Tibetans is that they don't have any problem at all with magic. One of the great Tibetan saints, Milarepa, started out as a dark wizard, seeking revenge for wrongs that had been done to his family. During his time as a wizard, he killed many people, but finally he came to regret what he'd done.

"The point of this is that if you go to any Tibetan lama, they know about magic. They don't have any contact with the magical world, because there's no need, but it's not a secret to them. I took an interest in the topic when my first wizard student showed up. The story of Milarepa didn't make me eager to help anyone studying magic, but I can't in good conscience turn students away, and so I had to go do some research.

"So you aren't magical yourself?" Vernon asked.

"Well, that's a complicated story. But I'm not a wizard, no."

Vernon noted the evasion, but let it slide for the time being. "So, can you help Harry to help Petunia?"

"I think so. I don't know for sure. Wizarding children don't normally start to control their magic until reach the age of eleven—that's considered a safe time to start. You should not encourage Harry to pursue magic in any serious way before then.

"But the magic he is doing now is a branch called legilimancy. What he's really doing is just communicating with Petunia. When it's not used to attack, legilimancy requires little magic—indeed, in my tradition, we don't even call it magic. What Harry can do for Petunia right now is to help her to take advantage of something called neuroplasticity.

"Neuroplasticity is the ability of the brain to develop and grow as a result of the way a person uses their mind. We see it a lot in meditation: when you meditate, your brain structure actually changes to support the practice. New neurons grow, and the way the brain operates shifts."

"So Harry will be teaching Petunia to meditate?" asked Vernon.

"No, although the practice that I had Harry do is a beginning meditation practice, and that's what allowed him to get his mind into a state where his intention to reach Petunia could be acted upon. But what he can do for Petunia is to just interact with her. If she remains in her coma with no interaction, the brain can heal, but with Harry helping her to interact, her brain will be more active.

"I don't really know if it can work, and perhaps she will come out of this on her own anyway. But he can definitely help her to be less alone and afraid, locked in as she is at the moment. And I think that he can help her to re-develop the neural pathways that will ultimately enable her to wake up and function in the world again."

"That's… amazing," Vernon said. "How do you know about all this?"

"I'm a bit of a hobbyist. A lot of meditation teachers are. The relationship between the experience of mind and the structure of the brain is unknown, but we can't help but see that there is a relationship. Some people consider it a matter of faith that the mind and the brain are unrelated; others are sure that they are one and the same. My own tradition theorizes that physical reality and mind are just two sides of the same coin, and so of course we would see a connection between the brain and the mind.

"A couple of years ago the Dalai Lama got really interested in this stuff and started funding research on it, and encouraging his senior monks to be research subjects. So we've already learned quite a bit. But it's a really open field—it makes me wish I'd gone to medical school instead of studying computers, but at this point in my life I'm happy to just be amazed by what the research finds, and don't feel like I have to be doing it."

"Wait, what? I thought you were a Buddhist priest!" said Vernon.

"Ah, not exactly. Buddhists aren't really into the whole ordination thing in the way the Church is. In cultures where Buddhism is the main religion, you do see a lot of support for Buddhism as a career, although I suppose the monks might object a bit to that description. But here in England, it's not a great way to make a living. So I have a meditation studio, which is paid for by donations, but my main job is working on computers."

Vernon was impressed. "Huh. We've been using computer-controlled manufacturing in my company for a few years now and it's really helped with quality, but the details of how it works are beyond me."

The conversation wandered off into computers and drills for a while, but then Harry's stirring turned to wakefulness, and it was time to go.

~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~

* * *

When Harry and Vernon got home, Dudley was in a state. Bella explained that one of Dudley's little friends had come over for a visit, and it hadn't gone well. His friend, a boy named Piers Polkiss, was a bit of a bully. When Dudley was able-bodied, he was able to keep Piers in line, and in fact they had had a bit of a hobby of going around teasing smaller kids together.

Without that in common anymore, Dudley and Piers were able to stay busy playing video games for a while, but the energy of a six-year-old was too much. When they couldn't go out and play, Piers decided to leave, and Dudley went ballistic. This led to a screaming match between the two friends, and at the end of it, Piers left in a huff, saying that Dudley was a nasty prat, and that he never wanted to see him again.

So Dudley had alternated between crying, sulking, and being needy, and Bella was at her wit's end when Vernon and Harry finally came home. Vernon gave Dudley a chuck on the shoulder and told him to buck up. Harry sat and played video games with him while they ate some take-out that Vernon had picked up on the way home.

When it was time for bed, Dudley was in a better mood, and went upstairs without complaint. Harry found his way to his cupboard, snuggled in, and closed the door.

Vernon and Bella had been sitting together in the kitchen, talking about Petunia's recovery and tomorrow's logistics. Vernon didn't tell her about Harry's role in Petunia's recovery. He suspected that Bella knew about magic, but if she did, she might try to stop Harry helping Petunia, and Vernon wasn't willing to risk it.

When Harry retreated to the cupboard, Bella looked at Vernon with an eyebrow raised. "You have him sleeping in a cupboard?" she asked.

Vernon had completely forgotten that this was in any way unusual, so the comment took him completely by surprise. "He was an orphan. We found him on the doorstep, and took him in. He's very small, and the cupboard works just fine."

Bella was enraged. "Just fine? There are spiders in there! It's dusty! He's sleeping on a thin mattress pad! Whether he's an orphan or not, you took him in. It's your job to treat him like a part of your family now! I can't believe this! No wonder you had no-one else to turn to but me! You're a _monster!_"

Vernon hung his head. "You're right. What we did was wrong. We were afraid and upset. My parents and Petunia's were caught in the crossfire of a war. When Harry showed up, that was the first we heard of Petunia's sister Lily's death. Harry is from that world. We couldn't turn him away, but at the same time we didn't want anything to do with him and the madness of the world he came from. We'd barely come to terms with the loss of all of Dudley's grandparents, and now his aunt was gone too.

So yes, you're right. What we did was wrong. But we aren't monsters."

Somewhat mollified, Bella said "yes, the wizarding war was a difficult time. But you have to do something about this. This isn't right."

"You're right, and I will," promised Vernon.

~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~

* * *

The next day, Harry was back in the hospital with Petunia. He had overslept, but felt rested and ready. Sitting down in the chair, he remembered Colin's instructions. Notice the breath. Follow the breath. Soon he was thinking about Dudley and Piers. He couldn't help but be satisfied with the way that had turned out.

Piers really was a bully, and had been a bad influence on Dudley. Before Piers came into the picture, Dudley was not very nice, but afterwards, the two of them would play a special game of tag with Harry that always seemed to result in Harry getting shoved to the ground.

He'd quickly learned how to fall without getting scraped hands or skinned knees, but it hurt to be treated that way. He wished for a brother who he could be friends with, someone who'd look out for him and whom he'd look out for. Now that Piers was gone and things had changed, maybe that was possible.

Suddenly he remembered. "Oh yeah, I'm supposed to be following the breath, not thinking about Dudders." Remembering that Colin had said that this was part of the process, he smiled to himself and went back to it. After a while, things went dark again, and he said "Aunt Tuni? Are you there?"

"Yes, Harry. Can we have some light?" came Petunia's voice, with a happy and welcoming note to it to which Harry was not accustomed.

Harry wished for light, and there was light. Amazing.

"Let's go for a walk," Petunia said. They were in a large room with several doorways. Petunia led him out of the largest doorway. They walked for a while along a corridor, and then another room opened up. Inside the room was a beautiful, red-haired woman with vivid green eyes. She was standing under a tree, wearing a dress of lawn, wand in hand, gazing off into the distance.

"Mama!" Harry exclaimed, looking in amazement at Aunt Tuni. The woman turned and smiled.

"She's a memory, Harry. You can't really talk to her, but I wanted you to see her. I know you've missed her."

Harry walked up to the memory of his mother, and embraced her, leaning his head against her and breathing in her familiar yet forgotten scent. "Thanks, Aunt Tuni." He felt his mother's hand on his head. It wasn't the same as having her back, but being here, in Aunt Tuni's memory, able to see her again, made his heart feel full for the first time in longer than he could remember.

"Let's keep going," Aunt Tuni said. "She'll follow us. She often does, when I come here."

Holding his mother's hand, just to make sure, Harry followed Petunia. The hallway led into a room that full of broken furniture, the windows boarded up. "What's this?" Harry asked.

"I don't know," Aunt Tuni replied. They kept going. More rooms, some full of junk, some with scenes and people whom Harry did not recognize. Most of the rooms were in good shape, but occasionally they'd come to a room that was broken, like the first one.

After a while, Harry said "let's see if we can fix one of these."

Aunt Tuni nodded. Harry looked around. This room had a lot of machines in it, and some of them looked fine, but a wall had collapsed on a set of machines in one corner. Harry started picking up the stones from the wall and putting them back in place. It took some thought to fit the stones, like assembling a puzzle. When a stone went into the right place, Harry saw that the mortar and plaster had been damaged, but as he noticed this, the damage would fix itself, as if by magic. "Maybe it is magic," he thought.

Once the wall was fixed, Harry was able to put the machines back together the same way, like putting a puzzle back together. By the time the room was back in order, Harry was very tired. "I don't think I can do anymore, Aunt Tuni."

"That's okay, Harry. This is lovely," she said. "I will see if I can do some of the picking up, at least, so that when you come back you have less to do."

Harry nodded, hugged his mother goodbye (she tousled his hair, but said nothing) and gave Aunt Tuni a hug as well. Then he tried to wake up. Nothing happened.

Aunt Tuni looked amused. "Maybe you should try going to sleep instead of trying to wake up, Harry. You look like you could use it."

So they wandered a bit until they found a room with a memory of a bed in it. Aunt Tuni tucked Harry in and Lily kissed him on the forehead. Smiling, Harry drifted off to sleep.

~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~

* * *

When Harry woke up, he wasn't in Aunt Tuni's memory, and he wasn't in the hospital either. He was in a strange bed, in what looked like Dudley's second bedroom. Dudley's junk was gone. He felt a little uneasy, surrounded by so much space. Why wasn't he in his cupboard?

Downstairs, Vernon had made breakfast, and he and Dudley were already eating. Harry filled a plate and started eating too. "Uncle Vernon, why'd I wake up in Dudley's spare room?" Harry asked.

"It's your room now, Harry. You're growing out of the cupboard, and Bella reminded me of it yesterday, so I cleaned out Dudley's old junk and got a bed delivered. How do you like it?"

Harry didn't actually like it that much, but understood that Uncle Vernon was trying to be nice. Not wanting to discourage that, he said "it's great, Uncle Vernon! Thanks!"

Vernon beamed, thankful that Bella had woken him up to how he'd been treating Harry. Who knows, if that had gone on a few years longer, maybe she would have been right to call him a monster. "I'm glad you like it, Harry. We'll set you up with a desk before school starts so that you can do your homework in there."

~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~

* * *

Later on that day, Harry and Dudley were playing "go fish," when a knock came on the door. Bella went to answer it. There was an old man at the door, wearing a strange outfit. It looked sort of like a business suit, but it seemed odd to Harry that the suit was orange and had green and pink flowers embroidered on it. The man was also wearing a pointed hat. "Wizard," Harry thought excitedly. The man's eyes twinkled as he spotted Harry and waved. Harry waved back.

Bella ushered the man into the sitting room and motioned Harry to stay with Dudley. Frustrated, Harry complied. He heard them murmuring to each other, but couldn't make out much of what was said. He heard "Petunia" a few times, and "Vernon" a few more, and "Coma."

When they were done talking, they both came out and Bella introduced him. "Harry, Dudley, this is Professor Dumbledore. He's the headmaster of a school that Harry will be going to when he's a bit older."

Dumbledore smiled at Harry and Dudley. "You're both handsome young men, aren't you? Are you in school yet?"

"Yes, we're starting year two in the fall!"

"Are you learning maths and reading and such, then?" asked Dumbledore.

"Yes," said Harry.

"Do I get to go to your school too?" Dudley asked.

"No, Dudley, I'm afraid it's just for Harry."

Dudley glared at Dumbledore. "I want Harry to stay here then."

"We'll see," said Dumbledore.

With that, the professor said his goodbyes, and Bella ushered him out. Harry and Dudley sat quietly together, each lost in thought. A few minutes later there was a loud _crack_, and Harry and Dudley startled.

Dudley looked at Harry and said "I don't want you going to a different school!"

Harry put his hand on Dudley's arm and said "I don't want to either. We'll have to see what happens, though—your Mum and Dad will know what to do. Dudley nodded, relieved that Harry was on his side. They went back to their card game. Bella gave Dudley an oddly sympathetic look, and then sat down to read.


	5. Petunia Awakens

It was a rainy Thursday, two and a half weeks since the accident. Dudley was starting to wonder if his mother would ever wake up. Harry and Father were still spending a lot of time at the hospital, and Dudley would visit less frequently. Harry spent a lot of time with Dudley when he was home, but Father had been a bit distant.

After struggling with Mrs. Figg for a while, he realized that he was never going to get her to find his bad behavior "cute" like Mother did. So when Harry wasn't home, Dudley would play video games or watch the telly. But it felt almost like there was a magnet drawing his ear to the sound of a car in the driveway, waiting for Father and Harry to get home. Even with Mrs. Figg there, the loneliness was difficult to bear. It didn't help that Piers was still avoiding him, and showed no signs of changing his mind.

The sound of Father's new car finally came, and Dudley went to the window to look. Harry and Father were just getting out of the car. Father looked like he'd been crying, but he also looked happier than he'd been since the accident. Dudley's heart leapt. Could it be?

"She woke up!" Father proclaimed as soon as the door was open.

"How is she?" asked Mrs. Figg.

"Weak, and a bit confused, but the doctors think it will pass. She can't come home for a few days—they need to get her back up and walking again in a controlled environment before she comes home. But the doctors are really happy with how she's doing—she's much better than they expected after two and a half weeks in a coma!"

"When can I see her?" asked Dudley.

"You're going to come back with me now, Dudley. We can't stay for long, but they said you could visit with her for a little while even though it's after visiting hours."

~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~

* * *

They wasted no time getting back to the hospital. Harry stayed with Mrs. Figg. Vernon helped Dudley into the car. When they got to the hospital, Vernon was able to get parking close to the entrance because of the lateness of the hour, and so they made their way in as quickly as Dudley could hobble with his crutches.

Dudley had actually gotten quite fast with his crutches. Once he'd gotten used to the alternation between two hands and his good leg, he could go even faster than a walking pace. The first time he pitched forward and couldn't stop himself, the only thing that prevented a painfully broken nose was his soft belly and the fact that, at six, he hadn't far to fall.

So now they made their way more deliberately, but Dudley still tried to go as fast as he safely could. He missed his Mum. Father had been distant since the accident, and Dudley knew it was because he'd caused it, so he didn't complain. But maybe Mum would still treat him normally.

When they got into the room, Vernon put his hand on Dudley's shoulder to keep him from rushing at his mother. At the sound of Dudley's voice, Petunia looked up and smiled. Relief washed over Dudley. "Look at you, Diddums!", Petunia exclaimed. "You've got four legs!" Vernon lifted Dudley up onto the bed, and she reached up weakly to hug him.

Dudley hugged her back as if his life depended on it. He'd always known that he loved his mother, but something had changed. "I've missed you so much!" he said. "I'm sorry that I caused the accident and you got hurt and I'm glad you're better and please don't ever be in a coma again!"

"Dudley! You did _not_ cause the accident! Please stop blaming yourself for it!" Petunia chided him, smiling happily up at him. Now what's been happening while I've been out of commission?

Dudley talked for quite some time about all that had transpired, about Piers, about Harry, about how lonely he'd been waiting up nights for Harry and Vernon to come home. Petunia smiled and nodded at appropriate intervals, but didn't say much. She looked pretty tired.

"How come you're so tired? You've been sleeping for two weeks!" Dudley finally asked.

"I'm still recovering, dear. Don't worry about me. The doctors say I'll be right as rain in a few weeks."

~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~

* * *

Earlier that night, Harry had repeated what had become a regular ritual, doing his meditation practice until the legilimancy started to work. He'd gotten better at following the breath, and didn't get distracted as easily, so the legilimancy sessions started much quicker. But he still tired out quickly; since the beginning, he and Petunia had managed to repair most of the broken rooms that they'd been able to find, but it had been a slow process, and only with Petunia's help had it gotten easier.

That night, they decided to tackle the room with the windows. This was a bit different than repairing walls and machinery. The furniture was easy to repair, but he couldn't figure out how to take the boards down from the windows. They were nailed up, and he didn't have the strength to pull them away, nor did Aunt Tuni.

Finally, Aunt Tuni said "maybe the boards are a metaphor."

"A what?" Harry asked.

Aunt Tuni thought for a while, and then said "suppose I wanted to tell you what the ocean was like, and you'd never seen it."

"I _have_ never seen the ocean," Harry replied.

"Oh," Petunia said, and paused for a bit. "Well, then this is a good example. Think about the Thames River. You've seen that, right?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Now imagine something like the Thames river, only as big as the sky."

"Okay."

"That's the ocean. It's so big you can't see the other side of it."

"Wow," Harry said thoughtfully. "I'd like to see that!"

"I'll take you, I promise."

"Anyway, maybe the boards are like that. Before you showed up, I was just wandering around in my memories. I could feel that I was stuck in here, but it wasn't a house. And then when you came and turned on the light, suddenly we were in a house, with rooms, and the rooms were memories.

"Maybe the broken rooms are your metaphor for the damage that we're trying to heal together. But maybe this metaphor isn't the right metaphor anymore. It's showing you what's wrong: my windows to the world are boarded up. But it's now showing us what's really there, and so we can't fix it."

Harry thought for a bit. Suppose Aunt Tuni were right. How could he change it?

"Imagination, Harry. You're a young boy. You have a big imagination, don't you? All boys have big imaginations."

Harry thought about it. He supposed he did.

"So, imagine something that _can_ open."

Harry thought for a while. What can open? What's like a window? Eyes!

The scene shifted. The room darkened. Harry imagined eyes, and imagined them opening. It felt weird, like he was lifting a really heavy weight. They weren't moving. He lifted harder. The strain was immense. Aunt Tuni cried out in pain. Just as Harry was about to stop, a sliver of light appeared, like a line on the horizon. The line fluttered, and the eyelid lifted. Harry saw the ceiling of the hospital room.

"Do you see that?" he asked.

No answer. The scene shifted back and forth. Suddenly Harry saw himself, sitting in a chair, eyes closed. He saw Uncle Vernon in a chair nearby, asleep, a bit of drool coming out of his open mouth. Vernon's eyes suddenly opened. Harry could see his mouth moving. Vernon reached over and shook Harry, and suddenly Harry was waking up from the meditation, looking back at Aunt Tuni. Her eyes were open!

"Vernon?" her voice came, a thready whisper that he could barely hear.

"Petunia!" Uncle Vernon's voice broke as he spoke her name. He leaned over and gently kissed her on the forehead and on the lips, his hand on her shoulder. "Welcome back, love!"

~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~

* * *

The next few days were a blur of activity. Harry was suddenly in the background again, and Dudley was the one going to the hospital to visit Aunt Tuni every day. Harry couldn't quite manage to feel let down about this—he had had a tiring time. He did worry, though. Was he going to be shoved back into the cupboard and forgotten again?

It was a Sunday morning when Petunia came home from the hospital. Vernon helped her out of the car and into the house, with Dudley bringing up the rear. When Petunia got into the house, she looked around until she spotted Harry, who was sitting dejectedly on the couch, afraid to hope that things would be different now.

Petunia made her way over to where Harry was sitting, sat down next to him, and wrapped him in a hug. "Harry, I was so alone until you showed up. Thank you for finding your way in, and for helping me to find my way back out." Dudley came over and sat down on Harry's other side and leaned in.

Mrs. Figg came out to see what was happening, but Vernon's eyes stopped her from saying anything. The two of them just stood there looking at Petunia and Dudley surrounding Harry. Mrs. Figg walked over to Vernon and quietly said "I'll come back later after Petunia's had a chance to get settled. Call me if you need help; otherwise I'll keep coming by during the day until Petunia gets her strength back."

Vernon gave Mrs. Figg a grateful look, quietly thanked her, and ushered her out. Then he sat down next to Petunia, and the family was together, for the first time.


	6. Accidental Magic

Harry and Dudley were playing together on the swings one summer afternoon. Harry's 9th birthday was coming up in a few days. July in Surrey is normally warm, but not unpleasantly hot, and today was no exception. Harry and Dudley had finished their chores—Dudley was now helping with the garden and the lawn—and they were both tired, but enjoying the beautiful summer day.

As Harry and Dudley played on the swings, Piers' little gang of bullies walked up. Dudley's broken leg had healed normally, but his relation with Piers hadn't. For the most part Piers' gang left Harry and Dudley alone. Today, though, they were bored, and Piers had thought of a new game.

"Harry! Dudley! Want a push?" Piers asked.

"No thanks," Harry replied, but to no avail: two of Piers' little buddies had already started pushing Harry and Dudley.

"I'll bet you guys can go all the way around if we help."

Neither Harry nor Dudley had reacted quickly enough: by the time they got alarmed, they were already swinging back and forth with a great deal of force, and neither one felt safe jumping off. The boys swung higher and higher. Finally, Harry and Dudley both came off the swings at the apex, flying high up into the air. Instead of crashing to the ground, they both sailed up in a gentle arc and slowly came down to the ground, quite a distance from Piers and his friends.

"Magic!" Harry said to Dudley, pleased. "But how'd _you_ fly?"

"I dunno, I just did," Dudley said.

When Harry and Dudley looked back at Piers and the gang, there were two strangely-dressed adults talking to them. They took out sticks, pointed them at the boys, and there were flashes of light. The boys wandered off, looking dazed, and the witch and the wizard came over to Harry and Dudley.

"My name's Shacklebolt, and this is Greengrass. How old are you two?"

"Nine," said Dudley.

"Almost nine," said Harry.

"Are you two muggleborns?"

"What?"

"I'll take that as a yes. Look, this was obviously a case of accidental magic. That kind of thing happens sometimes when you're under stress. The two of you need to keep your magic secret from people who aren't magical. We're going to have to talk to your parents. Can you take us to them?"

"Sure," Dudley said, and motioned for them to follow.

~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~

* * *

"So you're saying that Harry levitated himself and Dudley away from the gang using magic," Vernon asked, after the wizards had explained what had happened.

"No, I told you, both children did accidental magic," said Penelope.

"But that's impossible. Harry is the only one who's magical."

"It's not that unusual for one brother to show magic before the other."

"But they're not brothers, they're cousins."

"Well, that makes it even more likely that they'd show at different times. Look, we're not here to argue with you, we just want to make sure that you understand the situation. Dudley and Harry performed accidental magic in the presence of muggles, who had to be obliviated. I take it since Harry's parents were magical that you two already knew of the existence of witches and wizards, and so we have no problem with you, but since you are living in muggle society, these magical outbursts can become a real problem. It's vitally important that you not discuss them with other muggles."

Vernon felt a familiar feeling. He wondered if his face was turning red. Several years of meditation practice had helped him to become more even-tempered, but this witch was really doing a good job of helping him to see that further work was needed. With some effort, he managed to answer, politely, "thank you, Ms. Greengrass, we understand."

Satisfied, Greengrass nodded. She and Shacklebolt said their goodbyes and left.

~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~

* * *

"So they said that _Dudley_ did magic?" Colin asked.

"Yes," Petunia responded. "But how is that possible? I would swear that he wasn't magical. We've never seen any sign of it before."

"It sounds like he's chosen," said Colin.

"What do you mean, chosen?" said Petunia, with a sinking feeling in her stomach.

"Magicals think that magic is hereditary, but that's utter bollocks," said Colin. "Think about it: you have this complex ability to massively affect reality in a way that others who are nearly genetically identical to you don't, and this is supposed to be controlled by what, one, or maybe a few, genes? How would that even _work_?

"The only way that wizards have managed to keep believing this as long as they have is that they hold science in contempt: they think magic is superior to and apart from science, if they even know about science at all. Or they think of science as sort of like magical disciplines, but without the magic. So for example chemistry is supposed to be like alchemy, but without magic. That's if they even know what chemistry or alchemy is," Colin said, a cynical look on his face.

"So it's not hereditary? So some people can _choose_ to be magical?"

"Anyone can choose to be magical. We are all magical. Magic is natural—it's not something outside of nature that is only possessed by a few. It is part of the working of the universe, and you can no more be free of magic than you can be free of electrons."

"But that doesn't make sense," Petunia pointed out. "When my sister Lily turned out to be magical, I wanted more than anything to be magical too!"

"You had probably already chosen," Colin said.

"Why didn't Lily's magic change my mind?"

"It was too late. The self had formed. Once the self has formed, you are too attached to whatever choice you made to change. You have an identity, and your identity, at a very deep level, is either magical or non-magical."

Petunia looked disappointed. "So the self forms after the age of nine?"

"No, usually a bit earlier than that. Before that, a child's sense of self hasn't solidified. They are more identified with their parents, and they haven't really separated themselves from the world yet. But sometime around the age of seven, the self solidifies, and the identity forms. This is when the feeling of magic starts to go out of the world for many of us, although it usually takes quite a while to vanish completely."

"So do you think it was because Harry used magic on me that Dudley chose magic?"

"That seems likely. It could have been anything that happened after he realized that there was magic. Children can realize that there is magic spontaneously, but that is rare. Usually they find out about it from someone else who is magical. That's why magic _appears_ to run in families. This all happens at an unconscious level—that's why magicals are able to fool themselves into thinking it's hereditary."

"So what this means for us is that both of our children are now stuck with this madness?"

"Yes, I'm afraid so."

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* * *

A few days later, it was Harry's birthday. Birthdays were still new to Harry: this was only the fourth he'd had as a real family member. His sixth birthday had been quite memorable: the first time he'd gotten presents. The first time he'd been the center of attention. There was even a cake.

The party itself included about a dozen of Harry and Dudley's friends from school. It was mayhem. By the time it was over, the downstairs of the house was a mess of balloons, paper plates, napkins, wrapping paper, and smooshed bits of cake and ice cream. Harry got several books, a backpack for school, a cricket bat, and a bicycle. Dudley had gotten one for his birthday as well, so he and Harry immediately rocketed off (Harry had already learnt to balance on Dudley's bike).

Mrs. Figg came over to help clean up. When the house was presentable again, Vernon and Petunia invited Mrs. Figg to sit down and have some tea. As she was taking her first sip, Vernon said "Dudley has done accidental magic. Some aurors from the Ministry of Magic showed up."

After they'd cleaned up the spilled tea and the broken bits of tea cup, and Mrs. Figg had another cup to drink from, she said "so he'll be going to Hogwarts, then?"

"That seems likely. So that brings up some questions. That wizard who wiped out our whole family, remember him?"

"It wasn't just your family. Have you met Mr. Figg?"

"He died in the war, then?"

"Right at the beginning. The bloody bastard came after me because I'm a squib, so I guess my blood wasn't pretty enough for him, but…" at this point Mrs. Figg choked a bit, and Petunia squeezed her hand.

"We weren't bothering anyone. His bunch just showed up one day, and Edrigar fought them off. They gave up and left, but he'd taken a terrible curse from one of them, hadn't he? I got him to St. Mungos, but they weren't able to save him. Dear man, the last thing he said to me was 'live, Bella.' 'Don't let this break you,' he said."

She paused for a bit and then straightened up. "And I didn't. I joined the Order, didn't I? Might be a squib, but squibs hear things, because magicals think we don't amount to anything. They don't see us as a threat."

"I'm terribly sorry to have made you relive that," Petunia began.

"Don't. Edrigar was a dear man, and I miss him every day. It's a blessing to be reminded of him. You don't ever have to apologize to me for bringing him up."

"Thank you, Bella. But that brings us to the crux of the matter. We are concerned for Dudley and Harry. Is there going to be another wizarding war? Are we going to be the next victims?"

"Dumbledore thinks that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named…"

Petunia gave her a quizzical look.

"The evil wizard who killed your family."

"Voldemort?" Petunia asked.

"What part of 'must-not-be-named' didn't you understand, girl," hissed Mrs. Figg.

"Why does it matter if we say his name?"

"At the end of the last war, they'd set up a Taboo on the name. If you spoke it, death eaters would apparate in and that'd be the end of you. Plenty of folk died learning that lesson. Your sister had it happen twice before she learned her lesson, but she was a quick one, and so was James. They fought off half a dozen death eaters the first time; the second time only four showed up, and they made quick work of them. Good fighters, those two were. Took You-Know-Who to kill them. Even Bellatrix and Dolohov couldn't manage it."

Petunia thought for a moment. "So what do we do, then? We can't protect them. We don't have magic."

"Dumbledore has some really strong wards up here. They'll protect you from anything short of a full-on death eater attack."

"Which sounds increasingly likely."

"Sure. But what can they do?"

"Bella, you may not know it, but I read history at University. I know how these things happen. There's no war now, but the seeds of war are already growing. People talk about war as if it's inevitable, but if you look back before the war, you see mistake after mistake that led up to it.

"I don't want Dudley in a wizarding war. I don't want to lose Vernon to a wizarding war. I don't want to wait until there's no choice left but war. If war is coming, if Dumbledore is right, what we need to do now is prevent the war. Is Dumbledore doing that?"

"I don't know. Dumbledore is not one for sharing his plans with the likes of me."

"Do you think he'd talk to us?"

"You could ask."

"Could _you_ ask him?"

"Sure, I'll owl him when I get home."


	7. The Council of Elrond

Harry and Dudley had decided to ride over to Colin's house. Since they met in the hospital, Colin had become a feature in the Dursley house—they'd have him over for dinner (Harry quite enjoyed cooking for Colin, who was an appreciative audience), and sometimes they'd spend the afternoon with Colin when Vernon and Petunia wanted some alone time together.

Colin lived about a mile away in Egham, near the high street. There was one bad bit crossing the A30 that they hadn't thought about, this being their first bicycle adventure together. Fortunately traffic was light as it was a Sunday, and they made it across unscathed.

As they approached Colin's house, on a lovely little side street, there was a loud pop behind them, and suddenly a whoosh, as a bolt of flame passed over Harry's head close enough to feel, and hit a tree ahead down the road. It burst into flame.

Harry yelled "GO! FAST!" in panic. He and Dudley raced pell mell down the quiet little street toward the gate in front of Colin's house. Colin opened it, having heard Harry yell. They raced inside. "Close it! Quick!" Harry yelled, but it was too late—there was a loud yell, something about fringes, Harry thought, and the gate burst into pieces.

"Inside the house, right now," yelled Colin urgently. "Keep your heads down. I'll take care of this." Harry and Dudley left their bikes in the yard and ran inside. Unable to resist, they disobeyed Colin and went to a window to see what was happening. Heart in his throat, Harry saw a figure in a dark robe coming toward Colin with a stick in his hand, pointed at Colin.

A bolt of green light sprang from the stick as Colin walked toward the figure. Harry flinched, remembering the evil cackle, the flash of green, and pain. But he kept his eyes open and watched as the green bolt struck Colin square in the chest. It went right through him as if he wasn't there and hit the wall of the house with a loud crack. Plaster and dust fell from the inside of the stone wall.

Harry watched in awe as Colin took what looked like a karate stance and punched the dark attacker square in the face. The attacker dropped as if he were a puppet whose strings had been cut. Colin leaned down, took the stick out of a rather delicate hand, and snapped it in two. He pulled back the hood, and Harry recognized Penelope Greengrass, the woman who'd been with Mr. Shacklebolt at the playground. She had a bloody nose!

Colin dragged her inside the gate using her cloak. He was bleeding, but looked okay. They heard another _crack, _and Mr. Shacklebolt materialized. Harry elbowed Dudley. "Look, it's the other wizard. What are we going to do?"

Dudley shrugged and looked to see what Colin would do. Colin seemed to recognize Mr. Shacklebolt. When Shacklebolt saw Penelope on the ground, her nose bloody, her stick broken, his own stick came out, and he pointed it at Colin, who looked quite unimpressed. Words were exchanged, Harry couldn't hear quite what. Shacklebolt seemed quite angry at first, but after hearing Colin's explanation he just looked worried. He put his stick away and helped Colin to lift Penelope up off the walk.

Together, they carried her inside. "You say she fired the killing curse at you?" said Shacklebolt.

"Yes. Look, you can see where it hit the house."

Shacklebolt took Penelope's broken wand (Harry had realized that these sticks must be magic wands), and pointed his own wand at it. "Priori Incantatem!" he said, a note of authority in his voice. A white light burst from his wand and struck the broken wand, which twitched. Nothing else happened.

"It's no use Colin. This is why we don't break peoples' wands until they've been convicted, you know."

"I had no choice. She wanted to kill the children. I don't understand why, Kingsley. Who is she?"

"She's my partner," said Kingsley Shacklebolt. "And, apparently, a death eater."

"Why would a death eater want Harry and Dudley dead so badly that she'd risk the killing curse in broad daylight?"

"What I really want to know is how you took down a trained auror without using magic or muggle weapons, but we'll get to that later. You do know who Harry is, right?"

"Er. Harry Dursley. Nine years old, today. Son of a witch and a wizard, who died during the wizarding war. What about it?"

Kingsley shook his head in amazement. Muggles. "Colin, Harry is _Harry Potter!"_

"Okay, yeah, that's his original name. What's your point?"

"_Harry Potter?_ The Boy-Who-Lived? _No_? Oi!" Kingsley looked quite exasperated. "Harry is the reason You-Know-Who is gone. When You-Know-Who tried to kill him, the killing curse bounced off and hit You-Know-Who instead. He vanished, and has never been seen since. Harry is the only person ever to survive the killing curse!"

Colin smirked. "Oh. Well, that explains a few things. So it was worth a real risk of exposure, then. But what are we going to do about her? Can you send her to prison?"

"No. Your testimony as a muggle is worthless in the Wizengamot," Kingsley said disgustedly. "She knows where you live. That puts Harry at risk, even if you can defend yourself. I'm going to have to obliviate her. She can't remember any of this. We can only hope that she hasn't had time to tell anyone."

"Can't you take her back to the Ministry and question her?" asked Colin.

"There's every reason to believe she's not the only death-eater in the Ministry. We can't risk it—Harry's safety is paramount!" Kingsley pointed his wand at Penelope, concentrated for a moment, and whispered "_Obliviate!_"

"I'd better take her to St. Mungo's and get her looked after. This isn't ideal, but now we _know_ she's a death eater. That's useful information. I'll drop by later if you want to talk about this."

"Thanks," said Colin, eyeing Harry thoughtfully.

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* * *

After Kingsley had left, Colin looked Harry and Dudley over and pronounced them fit and unharmed. Harry helped him to bandage some cuts he'd got when the garden gate exploded. Kingsley had repaired it on the way out, and Harry watched in amazement as Colin swung it closed.

"How did he do that?" Harry asked.

"Entropy reversal," Colin said absent-mindedly.

"What's entropy?" asked Harry.

"A lesson for another time," said Colin. "For now, I need to ask you some questions I should have asked you when we met. That scar. What can you tell me about it?"

"Well, I think it happened when Voldy-who killed my family," said Harry. "It hurts sometimes when I remember that. It used to happen a lot, but I think the memory is fading, and it doesn't happen much anymore."

"That's weird," said Colin. "Scars shouldn't hurt. Do you mind if I examine it?"

"No," said Harry. Colin had more than shown that he was trustworthy. Harry had continued his meditation studies after Petunia got out of the hospital. He hadn't tried legilimancy again because Dudley wouldn't let him, and Petunia and Vernon both wanted him to wait until he was older to do magic again, but Harry remembered Colin's remark about "smart wizards." And Colin was a soft touch when it came to meditation advice.

"Okay, let's sit together then. I want you to do your meditation practice," said Colin. Dudley rolled his eyes and went off to look for a book to read, knowing that there was going to be nothing interesting happening anytime soon.

A few minutes later, he was proven quite remarkably wrong.

"Who are you, muggle?" asked Harry in a weird, high-pitched voice, even though he still seemed to be meditating.

"I might ask the same of you," said Colin.

"I am Lord Voldemort," said Harry.

Dudley eavesdropped on this with keen interest.

"Are you now?" said Colin. "And how did you come to be here?"

"I don't know. Where are we?"

"That's none of your business. What have you done, turned Harry into a horcrux?"

"Harry? Harry who?"

"Harry Potter."

"Harry Potter? I _killed_ Harry Potter."

"Okay, then. I think I know what I need to know." He snapped his fingers, and Harry's eyes popped open.

"What happened?" asked Harry. "I heard that voice, the one from my memory of my family. Was he here?"

"In a manner of speaking," said Colin. "It appears that when he perished, he left a calling card on you, in the form of a soul fragment."

"You mean there's a piece of that.." Harry couldn't come up with a word, until he remembered what Uncle Vernon used to call him. It seemed weirdly appropriate. "That FREAK? I have a piece of that FREAK stuck to me?"

"Yes, Harry. And I understand why you are upset. But they say that when a door closes, another opens. I think this is an opportunity. It's time to take your training up a notch. I think your magic has been fighting this soul fragment, but it's probably still affecting you, and it's time that you were in control of the situation. We can't just trust to luck that this _thing_ won't infect you somehow."

Harry nodded, a feeling of determination welling up inside of him. He'd lost his parents to this murderer. He wasn't going to let anyone else suffer because a fragment had survived.

~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~

* * *

Colin walked back to No. 4 Privet Drive with Harry and Dudley, who, bored with the slow pace, had begun riding circles around him as he walked. "You'll get dizzy and fall over!" he warned them, but they paid no heed. When they got back to the house, Harry and Dudley raced inside.

"You won't _believe_ what happened!" Dudley yelled excitedly. "There was an evil witch, and she attacked us! She caught a tree on fire! Kingsley put it out! Colin punched her in the _nose_ and knocked her out!"

Petunia and Vernon blanched and exchanged glances. "Colin, what happened? Are you all right? Are the boys all right?"

"We're okay for now. I'm not sure what's next. It depends on whether Penelope told anyone that Harry lives in Little Whinging."

"Penelope?" asked Vernon. "You mean the witch who was here the other day about Dudley's accidental magic?"

"Yup. Turns out she used to work for Voldemort. She came after Harry and Dudley today when they were riding over to visit me. Dudley's right, she caught a tree on fire, and she also shot a killing curse at me, but she missed and I was able to take her down.

"Kingsley obliviated her. If she didn't tell anybody, then we're clean. If she did, then the secret's out, and what's more, they know that we know, because we obliviated her."

"Why didn't you have Harry try legilimancy on her?"

"Bloody ..." Colin looked at the boys and grimaced. "That would have been a good idea. We just didn't think of it. Kingsley doesn't know that Harry is a legilimens."

"Speaking of which, it's funny. Kingsley was worried about Penelope Greengrass knowing where _I _live, but not about where _Harry_ lives. We need to figure out how to protect Harry at home in case Penelope has mentioned where he lives."

Vernon looked thoughtful. "When Dumbledore dumped Harry on us, he left us some instructions. One of them is that as long as Harry lives here, he's protected from Voldemort and his followers. I don't know how. It might be magic, or for all I know they have people patrolling here."

"Wait, so you _knew_ about Harry and Voldemort?" Colin said, taken aback. "That would have been a useful piece of information to have shared with me earlier!"

Vernon and Petunia both nodded. "We don't like to talk about it. Harry's parents' death part of a very dark period in our lives," said Vernon. "Harry's parents weren't the first to die. Harry's mother, Lily, was married to James Potter, a boy she met when she was at Hogwarts. He was from a fairly well-to-do wizarding family that sided against Voldemort in the wizarding war.

"You know what Voldemort did to people who sided against him: he hit them where they were weakest. That was us," Petunia added. "Voldemort knew that my parents were muggleborn. He got wind of the wedding somehow. He attacked after the wedding reception. We were late, because Vernon wouldn't go—he and James…. well… there was no love lost between them, let's just leave it at that."

Vernon looked a bit shamefaced.

"So when we got there, the place was in chaos. My parents and Vernon's had made it on time, and they were killed by death eaters. Several death eaters were killed in the attack—Lily and James were both powerful wizards, and a lot of their friends were too. You can't imagine what this did to us."

"Actually, I can," said Colin, sadly. "So much loss, so quickly. You must have been flattened."

"We were. It was like all of the sound had collapsed out of our world and we were living ghosts. Vernon inherited the drill factory from his father. He immersed himself in that to take his mind off the loss. I finished my studies at University, but I really had to struggle. The joy had gone out of it. I wouldn't have kept at it, but if I'd stopped I would have had to think about what had happened.

"I'm sorry," said Colin. "I know what that feels like. I wouldn't wish it on my worst enemy."

"You didn't really see what we were like during that period. The accident shocked us out of it, and that's when we met you. We had tried to just shut out everything that had happened, to forget it. We were treating Harry like he wasn't here. I think we were punishing him for being magical. For being like Voldemort.

"When Harry showed up, we got a note that said that my sister had died, murdered by Voldemort. It said that Harry had survived, and that Voldemort was dead. Can you imagine? My beautiful, magical sister. She was my sister, and I had loved her. And then everything changed because of her magic, and I started to resent her. I said so many hateful things to her. And now I could never take them back! She went to her grave with my hateful words to remember me by. There was no way to heal from that.

"So all of that pain landed on Harry. We had him living in a _cupboard_, can you believe it? When he got old enough, I started treating him like a servant. Did you ever wonder why a nine-year-old is so good at cooking dinner? That's why."

"I had wondered," said Colin drily.

Petunia thought for a moment. "It's as if, when we surfaced, when the accident woke us up, we just reacted again. We'd been treating Harry like he was an alien, an invader. We couldn't continue that way. I hate to think what that did to Harry, living with us for four years, invisible except when he upset us. We weren't going to let him feel like an alien anymore."

Petunia paused to wipe her eyes and blow her nose. "So we made him family. He's our son. That was a decision. That's why we didn't talk with you about his parents, and about what happened to him. We just didn't want to reopen that dark chapter in our lives."

They sat there in silence for a while, thinking about what Petunia had said. Harry remembered, he used to call her "Aunt Tuni" and not "Mom." He used to be afraid of Uncle Vernon. It seemed like a different life.

~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~

* * *

After all that, nobody was quite ready for more discussion. Petunia went to the kitchen to make some tea and sandwiches. When she brought them out, Harry and Dudley were playing a game of checkers together, and Vernon and Colin were chatting about business: computers and drills, the usual thing. Business at Grunnings had really improved since the accident. Vernon's change of heart had led to him re-hiring some of the people he'd lost after his parents' death, and their experience had gotten the company back on an even keel.

Colin's computer business was thriving too. He'd actually done a bit of consulting work for Vernon, to get his IT systems in order, but now he was off doing a project involving computer networking, something called the "inter-net."

Once they had all finished their sandwiches and had fresh cups of tea to sip, Colin cleared his throat. "I think we have found ourselves in a strange entry point. None of us wanted this, but we may be in a position to change the course of our little bit of history. We need to start sharing our secrets, and stop holding them close. We've all suffered (I'll tell you more about my own story later), but I think we all agree on something: Harry and Dudley should not have to suffer the way we did. We need to end this."

Petunia and Vernon looked at Colin, a bit surprised. It was as if he'd somehow arrived at the same place they had when they were talking with Mrs. Figg earlier. They had thought they'd have to convince Colin, but it sounded like he was trying to convince _them._

"Agreed," said Petunia, and Vernon nodded. "We had a conversation with Bella about this earlier. She's agreed to ask Dumbledore to come talk to us about this."

Colin tensed up a bit. "What?" asked Petunia.

"Look, I think it's good to have Dumbledore as a resource if we can manage it, but I have to warn you. I've heard a bit about Dumbledore. He has a reputation for being a behind-the-scenes manipulator with an ideological bent that makes him dangerous to those who try to help him.

"Everything I've heard of him says that he genuinely means well and genuinely cares for the people he sends into battle, but look at history. Harry's parents are dead. Your parents are dead. Dumbledore was in charge of what magicals call the 'light' side of the war. And the outcome was pretty dark.

And, forgive me for saying this, but who put Harry here with you when you were least prepared to take him? It was Dumbledore, wasn't it?"

Petunia nodded. "He left Harry in a basket on our doorstep in the middle of the night. We found him the next morning with a note in an envelope, basically dumping Harry on us."

"Right," said Colin. "Do you think he didn't know what a dark period you were going through? Did he really think this was the right place for Harry to be? Did he offer you _any support at all?_"

Petunia shook her head.

"Okay. So we should consider him an ally, but we should assume for the time being that our safety and well-being are not his first priority. But they are ours. I think we should treat him as an ally, but we need to set the agenda, not let him set it. Does that make sense?"

Petunia and Vernon nodded. Dudley nodded (he remembered how Dumbledore had told him he couldn't go to school with Harry, and was happy to see that the adults were on his side in this).

"One other thing. I've heard that Dumbledore is an utterly shameless legilimens. If we're to keep our own counsel, that means that you all need to practice occlumency when he's here."

"That sounds like magic," Petunia said.

"Not as such, no," said Colin. "In a sense it is, in the sense that we are all magical, in the sense that mind itself is magical. But it's not magic in the way that magicals think about it. Anybody can practice occlumency. The magic is in legilimancy, when the legilimens wants you to think about something and pushes your attention to whatever it is they want to know. _That_ is magic. _That_ requires force.

"But to not be pushed? That just requires noticing. You quiet your mind, as you do in meditation, and then you just notice when you feel a push. Or a shove, if the legilimens isn't very skillful or is being deliberately unsubtle. It doesn't matter. You both have solid meditation practices. You'll be able to keep a casual legilimens from skimming your thoughts and memories.

"You know the practice: you sit, with your attention on the breath, and wait for distractions to come up. When they do, you gently return to the breath. A legilimens just creates distractions for you to follow. All you have to do is not follow them. The same thing you've been doing all along. A really powerful legilimens can apply a great deal of force, the equivalent of a very strong distraction. But they can't actually _make_ you think about anything. The reason you think about it is because you go along. So don't go along.

"Of course, a concerted attack will be beyond your ability to stop, with your practice as it is now. Neither of you have really been practicing to become adepts—you've just been practicing to make your minds happier. That's okay, but now it's time for you to become adepts."

Dudley raised his hand. Vernon looked at him questioningly. "I never learned to meditate," Dudley pointed out.

"That's a good point, Dudley. You should start. Have Harry teach you the basics. For now, the two of you need to stay out of sight. Dumbledore won't be able to read you when he can't look you in the eyes, not without a lot of effort. When Harry's explained the basics and helped you to start, we should talk about what happens, and I'll give you pointers to keep you on track."

Dudley nodded, relieved.

"Okay, the next thing we need to do is start gathering information. None of us are magicals, but I can pass as a magical. I know the tricks to get into Diagon Alley. We should start following the magical press. I'll get some books on magical history—I know a lot about magic theory, but it's come to my attention that I don't know as much as I should about the wizarding war.

"I'd like all of you, and this includes you, Harry, and you, Dudley, to think about what we've talked about and see if any ideas occur to you. If they do, write them down and share them at our next meeting. Great minds think together. We need to all be thinking about our problems if we are going to solve them in a way that doesn't lead to a repeat of the first wizarding war.

"And Petunia, Vernon, you need to think about whether or not you want to become magical."


	8. Forgiveness

"Excuse me?" said Petunia, her voice quivering a bit. "_Become_ magical? I thought you said that once we chose, that was it."

"No, that's not what I said," said Colin. "What I said was, once the self forms, the choice that you made is fixed, because the self becomes attached to it. Before that, it's fluid."

"Okay, but here I am. The self has formed. Apparently I'm attached to being non-magical."

"Yes, that's right. But there's another side to it. The formation of self is one part of the process of becoming an adult, and it continues for many years after the self first forms, changing, deepening and adjusting, building layer upon layer. The self is necessary for you to operate in the world: you need to see yourself as separate, and you need to take action to look out for your _self-_interest. But it doesn't have to be the end to your growth.

"You can, if you choose to follow the process, _transcend_ the self. You don't _lose_ the sense of self. But you do lose your attachment to what was previously seen as the entirety of the self. This has the effect of taking off the blinders.

"So where before, you were contracted into the sense of self, so that it was the entire context of what you could imagine, when you transcend it, the blinders come off. The little self is still there, and can be inhabited or not, but it's no longer all there is, and so it doesn't get to have its way as it once did. This has many benefits. One of them is that you are once again free to choose."

"Where do I sign up for this?" asked Petunia eagerly.

"Not so fast. I'm not in the business of growing new witches. If you want to do this, you have to make a commitment to me. You are not going to be just a witch. You are going to be a _good_ witch, a witch of the light, to use the magical terminology. That means not only won't you be doing any dark magic, you won't be _able_ to do dark magic. You won't be able to hurt another person with your magic. You can protect, and you can help, but you can't harm. Are you still interested?"

Petunia thought for a while. Why _did_ she want to become magical? Her reaction when Colin brought it up was a powerful desire, but where was it coming from? Was it even a good idea, given what had happened to her parents, and Vernon's parents, and her _sister_?

But how had this conversation started, after all? She was ashamed to admit that even after finally welcoming Harry into the family with an open heart and open arms, she still didn't feel protective toward him the same way she did toward Dudley. The reason they were having this conversation with Colin now was because Dudley was at risk.

As a non-magical, there was nothing she could do to protect Dudley or Harry. If Voldemort showed up, she was defenceless. "You're right to ask, Colin. When I think about it, the reason that I reacted the way I did is that I'm still stuck in my jealousy of my sister. She was magical, I wasn't. She got the attention, I didn't. And that's not a good reason to do it. But we have a good reason for me to do it, and it's exactly what you just said. Harry and Dudley need my protection."

Colin nodded approvingly. "What about you, Vernon?"

Vernon had been thinking too, but he just couldn't see it. "I think even if I had the choice to make again, I wouldn't choose to be magical. I can see Petunia's reasoning, but I don't _feel_ it. It doesn't _feel_ like the right thing for me to do."

"That's okay. You can come along for the ride anyway if you want, and see what happens. The path to transcending self isn't easy, but it's worth it in the end, as long as you don't get into trouble along the way. But you'll have me here to help you if you do."

Petunia and Vernon both nodded. They'd already experienced some difficult things in meditation: when their practice matured, and the mind grew quiet, the inner demons had come for both of them. But the stability of their practice, along with Colin's presence and support, was enough to create a place of safety, where they could confront them. It hadn't been fun, but after each confrontation, they'd felt stronger and happier. It was actually shocking to look back at how things had been before the accident and realise how deeply unhappy they had been.

"Okay, that's settled for now. There's one other thing I need to tell you. Harry's a horcrux."

Blank looks from both Petunia and Dursley.

"That's okay, you're not expected to know what that is. When Voldemort tried to kill Harry, the evil curse that he used to do it fractured his soul, and a bit of it stuck to Harry. Voldemort's spirit can't return to the source until that bit is unstuck. And the fact that this happened suggests that Voldemort did it more than once. That's the bad news."

"And the good news?" Vernon asked.

"Because it's just a fragment of the soul, and because it's trapped in Harry's magic, it's actually quite powerless. If we can gain control of it, we can use it to find out Voldemort's secrets. We can find out if he made any other horcruxes, and if so, where they are. We can use it to find out who his supporters are, if we need to. And to dig up dirt on him, which might prove useful if we are to use words, rather than violence, to end the next wizarding war before it starts."

"Can you do that, Colin?" asked Petunia.

"No. This will be Harry's task. It will be a difficult task. I think it will take him years: not only does he need to become a master of occlumency, so that he can prevent the soul fragment from attacking _him_, but he has to become a master legilimens. And even that won't be enough. The ultimate weapon against evil is love. In order for Harry to overcome the soul shard and gain its help, he will have to learn to love it."

"LOVE IT?!" Harry exclaimed, shocked.

"Harry, remember when your Aunt Tuni was in her coma?"

Harry smiled at his old name for Petunia, and nodded.

"What wouldn't you have done to help her then?"

Harry thought about it. He had been a little softer and more naive then, despite the pain of being so isolated and unloved. "I would have done anything."

"Would you have forgiven the person who murdered your parents in cold blood?"

"No. It was wrong for him to do that. He is a monster. How can I forgive that?"

"Harry, let me be clear. Forgiveness does not mean that what the person did was okay. It doesn't even mean that they are an okay person now, or that you are their friend. It just means that any hatred that you have for them in your heart, you release.

"_You_ choose. You choose to stop turning the knife that they have stabbed you with. _You_ choose to pull it out, and stop the bleeding, and let the wound heal. You choose to look at them with clear eyes and see whatever opportunity there is for them to do something to make up for the evil they have done.

"And because you have forgiven them, because you have freed yourself from the need to make them pay for what they have done, you can, let me be quite frank, use them. And if they are redeemed in the process, that's okay. And if they are not, that's okay too. It's not your problem anymore. _That's_ what forgiveness is."

Harry thought about it. It appealed to him. He still missed his mother. He didn't remember his father at all. His memories of his mother all came from Petunia now, from the encounters he'd had with his mother in Petunia's mind. But he knew that his mother had sacrificed everything to save him. He wasn't being asked to die. He was being asked to let go of his anger. Was that worse than dying?

Looking Colin in the eye, Harry said "I honestly don't know if I can do it. But I think you are right. I have to try."

* * *

A few days later, Bella announced that Dumbledore had agreed to meet. He would come over for dinner when Vernon was home from work. Petunia rang up Colin, to let him know to come over, and Vernon, to let him know to come home promptly and not work late. Then she set about cleaning the house, with Harry and Dudley's help.

As dinnertime neared, everything was immaculate. Petunia had gotten over her need for the house to be spotless at all times, but she still appreciated order, and she couldn't stand the idea of welcoming company into an imperfectly tidy house.

She and Harry had been experimenting with Indian food, and so they decided to make up a small Indian buffet: some Tardka Dal, delicate little potato-and-pea samosas, an eggplant mirch dish with a cashew and coconut milk sauce that had looked appealing, a few other standards, and an assortment of chutneys. They had a new rice maker, one of those fancy "fuzzy logic" ones from Japan, and she made rather a lot of rice, just in case. In honour of the theme, she made Masala tea instead of the usual four-bag pot of PG Tips.

By the time Vernon got home and Colin appeared, the house smelled like an Indian restaurant, and she and Harry were satisfied, if a bit worn around the edges. They'd arranged for Dudley to go have dinner with some friends, so that he wouldn't be vulnerable to Dumbledore's legilimancy. Dumbledore and Bella knocked promptly at seven, and were ushered in to the dining room, where he was introduced all around.

Hearing Colin's name, he perked up. "You've been training Kingsley, haven't you?" he asked.

"Yes indeed. We've seen a lot of Kingsley the past few days as well. Have you spoken to him recently?"

"Yes, I got a report from him about what happened with the two young lads and Mrs. Greengrass the other day. And I hear congratulations are in order for the Dursleys—another wizard in the family! Wouldn't it be interesting to explore the family tree and see what's there in previous generations?"

Vernon looked a bit nettled, but kept silent. Petunia glared briefly, but then brightened. "While that would be an interesting topic of investigation, I am sure, I think that we have more pressing matters at hand. The food is getting cold."

"How right you are, my dear," said Dumbledore. "I forget that warming charms aren't common in muggle households, and so there is a certain urgency to dinner that is not present in wizarding circles. Here, let me oblige!" With a twinkle of his eye, he waved his wand over the dinner table. Vernon's fist clenched and relaxed.

"Thank you," choked Petunia. "You are most kind. Nevertheless, let us eat, because we have a lot to discuss, and it will go well over a pot of tea and some cardamom cake."

"Quite right," nodded Dumbledore, and they tucked in. Having heard the tale of his arrival chez Dursley, Harry thought that Dumbledore was either _quite_ oblivious, or else had a rather inappropriate sense of humour. He smirked at Colin, who raised an eyebrow and smiled back.

* * *

When dinner was over, everyone moved to the sitting room, where Petunia and Harry served tea and cardamom cake. Settled at last, Colin broke the ice.

"Professor Dumbledore, did Arabella tell you why we asked you to visit?"

"No," said Dumbledore. "I assume you wish to discuss the incident with Mrs. Greengrass?"

"That's part of it. We've come into some information that we'd like to share with you. Were you aware that Harry is a horcrux?"

Colin had timed the question carefully: Dumbledore had just taken a mouthful of tea, which sprayed quite satisfyingly. With a flick of his wand and a quick "_Evanesco! Scourgify!" _Dumbledore dispatched the resulting mess. "You remind me of the Prewett twins," he remarked, a his expression a strange combination of respect and annoyance. "They always had a sense of timing, those two."

"I'll take that as a compliment, I think," Colin responded. "We think that the horcrux was formed accidentally, but if so, that suggests that others were made intentionally. I'm sure I don't have to tell you what the possible risks are of a horcrux embedded in a young boy's scar. Harry has been studying meditation since he was six, and so the risk of invasion is slight, now that we know about it."

Dumbledore relaxed visibly. "That's brilliant," he said. "Thank you for doing that. I had worried that Harry might have suffered this fate. It's one of the reasons that I don't come here to visit."

Vernon couldn't resist. "So what you're saying is that you knowingly put my entire family at risk that Voldemort might suddenly possess the young boy you dumped on our doorstep one November evening?"

Dumbledore had the good grace to look ashamed. "Now that you point out, it does sound incredibly stupid. I am sorry. I have no excuse other than that I had genuinely hoped Harry's magic would keep the horcrux contained, and so I hadn't carefully thought through the risks. It was a difficult time—we'd just lost two very dear friends, as you know."

Vernon, not mollified in the slightest, nevertheless let it drop, remembering Colin's talk on forgiveness a few days previously. They were here to use Dumbledore as a resource, not to be his friend, although they would be his friend if that was what was needed to protect Dudley and Harry.

"Look. Dumbledore, here's the thing," Vernon said. "This horcrux thingy tells us that rumours of Voldemort's death have been greatly exaggerated. He is still out there. Given that you wizards like to create these horcruxes…"

Dumbledore frowned. "Not all wizards…" he began.

"Be that as it may. They must work, or you lot wouldn't bother, would you? So can he use his horcruxes to gain a new body and restart the war?"

"In principle, yes. He would need help—a disembodied spirit cannot cast spells or brew potions. But given that we have proof that at least one follower remains, I think it's safe to say that yes, he could come back in a form that would allow him to resume his idiotic war."

"Okay. So let's assume that he is going to come back. What is being done to ensure that he doesn't have any support when he does?"

"What do you mean?"

"Look, the way people like Voldemort gain control is by finding ways to get a sufficiency of people to believe that their interests align with his, and to get most people to think that they would be safest if they didn't resist. He must have done that in the previous war, or the tragedies we all suffered would not have occurred, would they?"

Dumbledore thought for a moment. "I hadn't considered it from that angle. I suppose you are right, in a sense. But changing a whole society to stop one wizard seems like a lot more work than one, or even a few, people can manage. What I am planning to do at present is to wait until he resurfaces, and then defeat him. I have reason to believe that this is possible."

"Would you share that reason with us?" Petunia asked skeptically.

"I think it is best that as few people as possible know about it. If Voldemort knew, he might be able to prepare. And, after all, a small fragment of him is right here in the room with us."

"I'm going to be quite honest with you, Professor," Colin said. "This is exactly the answer that we expected you to give. Your reputation precedes you. But let's leave that aside for now. Perhaps at some point you will see fit to share what you know. Until that time, will you at least help us to navigate wizarding culture, so that we can try to prevent this war that you seem determined to fight?"

Dumbledore nodded. "I think that although we disagree on means, we are fully in agreement on ends. I see merit in your plan, although I don't have enough faith in it to make it my own. You may consider me a resource.

"I think it would be best if we were in more direct communication. I can have the ministry connect you to the floo network. You should also get owls. You can send me mail by owl post when you need to, and if you need to speak in person, we can do so by floo. Does that suit?"

The Dursleys looked puzzled. "Floo?" Vernon asked.

"Ah. Yes. Wizards use fireplaces for transportation and to communicate with each other. These fireplaces are connected magically to a network. If you know the address, you can toss a bit of floo powder into the fireplace, and a connection will form. You can use that connection to transport yourself to the destination you've chosen."

"Doesn't this require magic?" asked Petunia.

"It does, but the magic comes from the floo mechanism itself. Once it's set up, it's self-powering. So anyone who knows what floo powder does can use it."

"Wait, let me understand this," Vernon said. "You have a mechanism for allowing random strangers, if they know your address, to teleport directly into your living room?"

"Ah, no, not exactly. The floo has to be configured to allow contact. Your house is warded quite strongly. That was the reason that I left Harry with you: because of your family connection, it was possible to make wards so strong that even Voldemort could not cross them. So if we connect you to the floo, only those who are allowed through the wards would be able to floo call you."

"These wards. You set them up?" asked Vernon.

"Yes."

"So you get to choose who can teleport into our living room."

"Well, yes, not to put too fine a point on it. At present, the wards will allow muggles to pass freely as long as they do not have harmful intent. So in principle a muggle could floo in, but in practice it seems unlikely—what muggles have access to the floo network. Additionally, myself, Arabella, and several members of the Order of the Phoenix have access, including Kingsley."

"Is Mrs. Greengrass by any chance on the list?" asked Colin.

"Heavens no. She was never a member of the Order. Her family is somewhat neutral, but they lean dark. It was a bit of a surprise to me to learn that she is herself a death eater, but we would never have assumed she was not."

"Can you add and remove people from the wards?" asked Colin.

"Yes, it's quite flexible," said Dumbledore.

"Will you give me your wizard's vow that you will tell us the names of every person who is permitted through the wards, and will not add people to the list without our permission?" said Colin.

Surprised, Dumbledore had to think for a moment before answering. "Very well, yes, that seems fair."

"Okay, let's have the list. We'll delete those people we don't know, and then we can set up the floo."

"Excellent," said Dumbledore. The list was short. The only names on it that they all recognised were Dumbledore, Arabella, and Kingsley Shacklebolt.

"Can we strike the rest of the names?" Colin asked, after explaining.

"Well, Amelia Bones is on the list. She just took over as the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. I trust her implicitly. I would really like to keep her on the list, just in case we need her in an emergency," Dumbledore said.

"Can we meet her," asked Petunia.

"Yes, that can be arranged."

"Okay, then let's keep her on the list provisionally, and set up an appointment to meet her when the floo is in."

With all of that agreed to, Dumbledore thanked them and made his excuses, citing a rather heavy workload because of the upcoming term at Hogwarts. Arabella agreed to make the arrangements for the floo network.


	9. Enough Weirdness for One Day

With Dumbledore's backing, setting up the floo was a quick process. Bella made the arrangements at the Ministry, and the next day the technician apparated in. Harry and Dudley had been banished upstairs before Dumbledore opened the wards, so that the technician wouldn't see them.

Once inside, the technician fiddled around in the sitting-room fireplace for a few minutes. There were a few loud bangs. The rug was caught on fire, extinguished, and magically repaired. With no apology for the chaos, the technician pronounced the floo active, said her goodbyes, and was gone through the floo. A starter bowl of floo power was left on the mantel.

With the floo set up, Bella rounded up Petunia and Harry. "Petunia, you need to get some makeup on Harry to hide that scar. We're going to be out in public, and the last thing we need is a Harry Potter fan convention." Petunia nodded, fetched her kit, and set to work.

"Ooh, go goth, Mum!" exclaimed Dudley. Petunia smiled at her son and wiggled her eyebrows inquiringly at Harry. Harry grinned and nodded. Might as well have some fun. And so, a few minutes later, Harry was kitted out as a little miniature goth boy. Dudley was quite pleased with the effect, and punched Harry on the shoulder affectionately. "Me next!"

"Put some robes on that and you're a pair of little Slytherins in the making," Bella remarked, smiling. "Let's go get you an owl!"

"We should get one for Colin too," said Harry.

"Good point." The four of them stood in front of the fireplace. "Okay, Petunia first. Take the floo powder and say (in a clear voice!) 'The Leaky Cauldron, Diagon Alley. Then walk into the fireplace and keep your elbows in. When you stop moving, walk out."

Petunia stood nervously in front of the floo. "The Leaky Cauldron, Diagon Alley," she said, enunciating clearly. In went the floo powder. The fire turned green, and she proceeded. The journey through the floo was… weird. She seemed to pass through several junctions and by a number of fireplaces, but didn't stop.

After a few moments, she did come to a stop. When she stepped through the fireplace, she almost fell over Fortunately, her balance had improved from all the yoga she'd been doing after her physical therapy ended. Tree pose for the win! Moments later, Harry came through, arms flailing, and lurched into her. They both landed in a heap. As they struggled to get up, Dudley popped out of the fireplace and knocked them down again.

A moment later Bella came through. She looked down at the pile of Dursleys, trying not to laugh. "Here, let me help you up," she said. "The first time through is always a bit of a challenge. Don't worry, you'll get the hang of it. I'm a bit surprised at you, though, Petunia. With all that yoga, you'd think you'd have a sense of balance."

Petunia opened her mouth to give voice to an indignant response, but then stopped and considered. She closed her mouth, shot a dignified glare at Bella, and said "Thank you. I will do my best to improve. Where to?" Bella was impressed. Petunia might have better comportment than Narcissa Malfoy. Wouldn't it be interesting to put the two of _them_ together in a room?

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* * *

"Our first stop is Gringotts," said Bella. She walked through the bar, ignoring the patrons. She waved at the bartender as she passed, and then walked up to the wall in the back. She pulled out a wand and tapped a few bricks. The wall disappeared, revealing an open space behind it.

The three Dursleys followed her through the wall and into the main part of Diagon Alley. It looked a bit like a tourist attraction: cobblestone pavement, three story Tudors with overhanging second stories, and oddly dressed people everywhere. That was the only thing that wasn't touristy about it: nobody seemed to be acting. They might be acting a bit oddly, at least from Petunia's perspective, but they were quite serious and businesslike.

Bella led them down the alley to a place where it opened out onto a square. Ahead to their left was a tall, imposing structure that looked like a bank, with elegant white columns and steps up to tall, imposing double doors. Above it was a sign that said "Gringotts." Petunia realised that it _was_ a bank. "Well spotted," she thought to herself in amusement.

Inside, Bella led her up to a teller. Above the window was a sign that said "Foreign Exchange." Behind iron bars was a small person, about Harry's size, but clearly not a child. "What?" the goblin growled.

"I'd like to change some English notes for wizarding currency," Petunia said and handed the goblin a stack of notes. Without another word, the goblin counted out the notes. He opened a drawer, out of Petunia's sight behind the wall, and scooped out a pile of coins, which he handed to Petunia. "Next!" he shouted.

Petunia took her coin and turned away without a word, taking the goblin's behavior as a sign for how to behave correctly.

"Okay, let's get a subscription going for the Daily Prophet. That's the newspaper of record for Wizarding Britain," Bella explained. "They're a bunch of yellow journalists, but wizarding folks seem to like it that way. The other newspapers we'll have to subscribe to by owl post."

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* * *

The Daily Prophet offices were right across the square from Gringotts. Inside, it was absolute mayhem: reporters at desks right out in public, writing their articles with what looked like goose quills and inkwells. An editor sat behind a desk watching the chaos, occasionally barking out commands. Behind a counter sat a harried-looking young witch, busily sorting and filing papers.

When Bella walked up to the counter, the witch ignored her. Bella picked up a tiny brass hammer from the counter and tapped the rather large bell with it. Everybody in the office looked at Bella and the Dursleys with interest. After a moment, they all went back to what they were doing. The frazzled witch startled, then looked at Bella with a frown. "Complaints by owl post only," she said and looked back down.

"We'd like to start a prepaid subscription," Bella said

The witch's expression softened. "Oh, of course, let me take down your details," she said politely.

Bella recited, "Vernon Dursley, 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging, Surrey, UK."

"That your husband?" asked the witch as she wrote.

"No, hers," Bella responded, gesturing with her thumb at Petunia.

"Okay, that'll be one galleon a year, with delivery," said the witch.

"What, no volume discount?" said Bella. That's four sickles more than it'd cost if we paid a day at a time.

"You caught me," said the witch. Thirteen sickles. Happy?"

"Very," said Bella, and gestured to Petunia. "Thirteen of the silver ones," she whispered. Petunia handed over the money. The witch took it with a polite thanks, and announced "you'll get your first owl tomorrow morning. Thank you for your business."

One of the reporters, a pale woman with exquisitely odd horn-rimmed glasses, looked up at the quartet speculatively. She scribbled some notes. As they left, she got up surreptitiously and read the names off the subscription note. "Dursley," she said, thoughtfully. "Now where have I heard that name?"

* * *

The next stop was Eeylops Owl Emporium. Harry immediately took a liking to a beautiful white snowy owl. The only trouble was that she cut such an impressive figure (for an owl) that they were a bit spoiled, and took quite a while settling on an owl for Colin. Finally they settled on a barn owl with a beautiful white face and reddish brown wing feathers that formed a lovely pattern when her wings were unfurled, which she seemed to like to do.

The proprietor, a somewhat short, kind-eyed older wizard, sold them a pair of travel cages for the owls, and a supply of owl nuts for snacks. Perhaps recognising Harry for a soft touch, he said, "now, you can use the cage as a roost for the owl, but it's not very dignified. Owls much prefer open roosts when they aren't traveling. Gives them freedom to move about and stretch, you know. These owls are extremely well behaved, trained by a master owl wizard. You needn't worry about them misbehaving.

The snowy owl gave Harry a significant look, ruffled her neck feathers, and hooted softly. "Yes, let's get those as well," said Harry. Petunia was happy to oblige—she didn't like the idea of the owls having to spend their time in the cages, and even less did she like the idea of them roosting on the furniture.

The two owls very obligingly got into their cages for the journey home. Harry felt a bit let down—he would have liked to explore more. But Harry could tell that Dudley had had quite enough weirdness for one day. So the quartet made their way back to the Leaky Cauldron. Bella saw them off at the floo. "I'm going to go back to Flourish and Botts and pick up some books for Harry. Give us a dozen sickles, will you, Petunia?"

Petunia obliged happily, and the Dursleys went up to the floo, one by one. "Dursley Manor," said Harry. _Whoosh_. Then Dudley. Then Petunia. Bella smiled to herself. It was so nice to see the Dursleys having a bit of a sense of humour about themselves. They used to take themselves _so_ seriously. _Dursley Manor, _indeed. Shaking her head, she wandered off to the bookstore.

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* * *

Back home with the spoils, Harry took charge of the owl. Petunia asked, "what are you going to name him?"

"Her," Harry corrected. "She already has a name. She told me. It's 'Hedwig.'"

"Legilimancy?" asked Petunia.

"It seems like that, yes. No rooms, just a sense of what her name was that solidified. When I asked her, she confirmed it." Hedwig hooted and nipped Harry happily, shifting back and forth from one foot to the other.

"What about the other owl?"

"Dagmar."

"Is that a thing? Do all owls have Danish names?"

"Well, I looked up Hedwig and found out that it's Danish. Dagmar didn't have a name, so I thought… Do you remember Dagmar from Copenhagen?" Harry got a faraway look in his eyes. For his sixth birthday, he, Mum, Dudley and Dad had all taken the ferry to Calais. They'd driven from Calais up to Denmark, where they'd spent a week together. Dad had rented a beach house to celebrate Mum's recovery. He'd hired a Danish girl named Dagmar to take care of the boys out on the beach so that he and Mum could have some "time alone."

It had meant so much to Harry at the time. Petunia had kept her promise to show Harry the sea. She had _so_ kept it. Dagmar had been another highlight of the trip for Dudley and Harry. Even though Dudley had been quite a handful, Dagmar just took it all in stride. She always had a smile, was always making Harry and Dudley feel welcome and safe. So yeah. Hedwig and Dagmar. Harry thought it would be nice to remember that first time they'd been together as a family, whenever Dagmar came to visit.

Petunia smiled at the memory. "Good choice, Harry." She reached over and pulled Harry into a hug. "Okay, let's get down to business. You can help me. Dumbledore said we needed to subscribe to the Quibbler as well. Apparently it's about as factual as the Daily Prophet, but in an interesting way. You can write to them. And I need to write to the International Magical Tribune for a subscription to their weekly edition. Apparently they actually report news, which could be helpful."

Harry wrote the letter, signed it "Harry Dursley," and put the right amount of money in, carefully wrapping it in paper and taping it so that it wouldn't come loose. He tied it around with string, and attached the string to Hedwig's leg, which Hedwig had obligingly stuck out. When he was done, Hedwig nipped his hand approvingly and took wing at once, flying out the open sitting room window. Petunia attached her letter to Dagmar's leg, gave Dagmar a gentle petting, and said "take this to the International Wizarding Tribune offices, Dagmar dear." Dagmar ducked her head, as if to nod, and followed Hedwig out the window.


	10. So Many Meetings

_Some notes appear at the bottom. Thanks for the reviews!_

Dagmar proved unwilling to switch owners. She'd apparently imprinted on the Dursley family. When they took her to Colin, she went along willingly enough, but once left at Colin's house, after realizing she wasn't going to be given a letter to send, she flew away, back to the Dursley's.

Mr. Pinion said that this was not usual. "Normally once an owl has bonded with an owner or a family, they remain with that family as long as the family remains. If the family dies, it's not uncommon for the owl to simply revert to the wild. Occasionally we hear stories of rogue owls."

"Rogue owls?" asked Harry.

"Yes. They go feral, but retain the instinct to deliver letters. One such owl is said to have roosted at the owlery at the Ministry for several years before it was discovered that all of the letters it had been given had been delivered to the ruined house of a family that was lost during the war.

"The intended recipient of one of these letters nearly wound up in Azkaban for tax evasion before the situation was uncovered."

"Azkaban?" asked Dudley, wrinkling his nose.

"Oh my, you children are too young for my stories. Never you mind," said Mr. Pinion.

Dudley, at the ripe old age of nine, did not appreciate being called "too young," but Mr. Pinion refused to say more, so he and Harry resolved to inquire elsewhere.

Harry was secretly convinced that the story about the owls was a smokescreen, anyway. Mr. Pinion had avoided their eyes as he told the story. "Perhaps," Harry thought, "Mr. Pinion simply saw an easy mark. And in any case, Dudley and I will need an owl for school, so it's no real loss."

Dudley was thrilled with this plan, since he'd taken quite a liking to Dagmar.

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* * *

The Sunday after the floo was installed, Colin and Mrs. Figg came over for another council. The four adults and two children settled around the dinner table and sampled the scones and clotted cream that Harry had prepared for the occasion, sipping tea and chatting politely about the food and the weather.

Once everyone was settled, Colin brought the meeting to order. "We are now getting regular information from the newspapers. There are two approaches we need to take on this. First, use the articles in the papers to gather information. Second, use them to understand the reporters. When the time comes to share information, we need to know which reporters to use for straight pieces, and which reporters will spin things to our advantage.

"So, we need to go through each newspaper and write down the names of all the reporters. We make a file and a scorecard for each reporter. Each article by each reporter has to be scored by two of us. When we're done scoring, we compare notes. We won't learn anything very quickly, but over time we should get a sense of which reporters we should talk to and what to say to them."

Dudley raised his hand. "Do Harry and I help with this?"

"Yes, Dudley. You and Harry are younger, so you have fewer preconceived notions. We'll want an adult on any story that you review, but your review is as important as the adult's. If you don't understand what's being said, just ask, and we'll help you out."

Dudley felt his chest puff up with pride at this. He had been feeling pretty helpless about the situation so far. Dudley was a big, stocky boy. His baby fat had long since melted away, but he took after his father, and his father was not a small man. The bullies at school picked on Harry, but not when Dudley was around. And they _never_ picked on Dudley.

So before the attack at Colin's house, Dudley had felt like he was Harry's big brother, even though he was only a month older. But he couldn't protect Harry from magic. And Harry, with his scar, had become the center of attention. He could tell that his Mum and Dad cared very much about protecting him, but the conversation kept going to Harry. Dudley was excited to finally be doing something.

"Next order of business is training," said Colin. "Petunia, Vernon, if you are going to open up to magic again, that's going to take a while. I have a few other students who are interested in going deeper into their practice, and so we're all going to start practicing together. I have an approach that I want to try with you that produces quick results."

"What about Harry," asked Vernon. "And Dudley, for that matter?"

"These practices really aren't right for children. They're there to help you to let go of your attachment to being a separate self in the world. For Harry and Dudley, the self is still under development. It doesn't fully solidify until young adulthood. So these practices won't help Harry and Dudley, and in fact they could hurt them."

Harry privately decided that he was going to try anyway.

"Can you teach us karate?" asked Dudley.

Surprised, Colin thought for a moment. "That's actually not a bad idea, Dudley. Karate isn't all that useful when you're being attacked by a wizard, but you saw me use it, and it did work. And it will actually be good for Harry in particular. You're more physical than he is. You can help him with this."

"I shall," Dudley nodded earnestly.

"Good. Mrs. Figg, have you heard from Dumbledore about meeting Ms. Bones?"

"Yes," Mrs. Figg replied. "She's agreed to come tomorrow night if that's all right."

"That works," said Colin. "Vernon?"

Once that was settled, the newspapers were passed out, and they set to work.

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* * *

The Quibbler had three reporters, one of whom was also the editor, a Xenophilus Lovegood. The other two reporters were also Lovegoods: Pandora and Luna. Xenophilus seemed to concentrate mostly on conspiracies in the wizarding world. Pandora's specialty was charms. Luna seemed fascinated by magical creatures.

Although published monthly, the Dursley's first Quibbler had arrived the day after Harry sent Hedwig with the subscription. A note was attached, sealed in a purple and green envelope, addressed to _Harry Dursley, Dursley Manor, Little Whinging, Surrey, England, U.K., Earth. _The note seemed to be written in a neat but childish hand, the letters carefully formed and rather large.

_Dear Harry Dursley, _the note began,

_It is with great pleasure that we welcome you as our newest subscriber. We had heard from Tom Yeats at the Leaky Cauldron that two new young wizards had been by, with a name not heard before in Diagon Alley. We bid you both welcome to wizarding England, from whatever foreign land you have arrived. We would quite like to interview you to find out what magical creatures you may have encountered, both in your travels and in whatever distant land you once called home._

_Our editor, Mr. Xenophilus Lovegood, is also curious to know whether your family may have relocated from the continent in order to flee from the Rotfang Conspiracy, which we understand has taken hold in Europe. Can you help our readers to be forewarned about this potential crisis on the horizon? We would be most appreciative of any help you may have to offer. Whether you can help or not, please do not hesitate to floo call us at "The Rookery". Perhaps you could drop by for nettle-and-peppermint tea?_

_Sincerely,_

_Luna P. Lovegood_

_Reporter at large_

Harry and Dudley were both intrigued by this offer. Luna clearly had the wrong idea, but they suspected that she was a magical girl, and they'd not met any children their age who were magical.

Harry and Dudley had both made friends at school, but as they'd gotten older it had gotten harder and harder to talk to them. It was too easy to let slip that Harry (and now Dudley) were magical, but they'd been warned by Colin and Petunia not to talk about it. So they had fun playing football, or talking about school work or movies, but there was always an awkwardness because of the secret. Where before an accidental slip of the tongue would be taken in stride, now it was seen as _weird_, or _childish._

Being able to play with another nine-year-old (so they hoped) with whom they could speak freely was an exciting prospect. And perhaps _she_ had friends?

"Mother, look here," said Harry. "We've been invited to tea!"

Petunia had been busy reading the Quibbler and taking notes. "Let me see that," she said. Harry handed her the note, which she scanned quickly.

"That's odd," she said. "But then, that seems to be the theme here. You think this 'Luna' might be interested in meeting two nine-year-old boys?"

"Yes, I think so," said Harry earnestly. "Look at the handwriting! I think she's somewhere near our age."

"And a reporter?"

"Yeah, isn't that brilliant? Maybe Dudders and I can be reporters too!"

"Well, I suppose we can see if your powers of deduction are accurate, or if she just doesn't write much. Let's ask Ms. Bones what she knows about the Lovegoods, and we can take it from there."

"Cheers, Mum!" said Dudley.

"Yeah, thanks!" smiled Harry.

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* * *

The next evening, at 6:30 sharp, the floo burst into green flame and a stern-looking witch stepped out. Colin and Vernon stood up to meet her.

"Welcome," said Vernon. "Madame Bones, I presume?" Colin had given him a bit of a lesson on wizarding etiquette the previous evening.

"Thank you," said Madam Bones. "Mr. Dursley, I presume?"

"Yes, and this is Colin Swickworthy, my wife Petunia, Harry, and Dudley."

"Pleased to meet you. Your reputation precedes you, Mr. Swickworthy. Kingsley Shacklebolt speaks highly of your tutelage in the mind arts."

"I'm delighted to hear that," smiled Colin. "Kingsley is an excellent student—I quite enjoy working with him."

Dinner was served—Haricots Verts with Brick au Chevre melted on top, a hearty lentil and carrot soup, potatoes with chives and butter, and a Pain Poilane fresh from the Poilane bakery in Chelsea, which Colin had acquired by way of the floo to the Leaky Cauldron. Petunia had been feeling a bit light-headed from the practices that Colin had started them on, and so she and Harry had decided to make some heavier fare.

Once the meal had succumbed to the depredations of the Dursleys, Colin and Amelia, they all retired to the sitting room. Harry had recently impressed Dudley into service as an assistant, but so far the only thing he knew how to make properly was a pot of tea. So Dudley brought out the tea and adulterants, and everyone spent a few moments fussing over their teacups before Vernon cleared his throat.

"Now that we are properly prepared, perhaps it is time to get down to business. Madame Bones, the reason we asked Dumbledore to arrange this meeting is that we have recently become concerned about Harry's security, and by extension, the security of our family. We have a very small list of witches and wizards who are permitted to pass through our wards, and you are the only such person we have not yet met."

"Indeed," said Madame Bones. "Dumbledore told me as much. What would you ask of me?"

"Can you tell us why you think Dumbledore singled you out as a person who should have access?"

"Well, I've recently become the head of the DMLE—the Department of Magical Law enforcement. Kingsley works for me, as does Penelope. But before that, I was Dumbledore's primary _official_ contact at the Ministry during the wizarding war." She looked down and away from Vernon as she spoke the word "official," a look of discomfort on her face.

"Why did the Headmaster at Hogwarts need an official contact in the DMLE?" asked Vernon.

"Ah, well, as I'm sure you know, Dumbledore wears many hats. He is Supreme Mugwump of the Wizengamot, and the head of the International Confederation of Wizards. And during the war, he organized a band of vigilantes who tried to fight You-Know-Who. I very much do not approve of vigilantes," she said, the look of discomfort returning. "But we had no choice but to work with him, because the ministry had been infiltrated. His vigilantes saved my life more than once. And of course, quite a few of them worked for the Ministry in the DMLE."

"So they were taking orders from two masters?" asked Vernon.

Madame Bones looked like she had bitten into a lemon. "Yes," she spat. "And all because we couldn't keep the Ministry itself secure."

"Has that improved at all since?" asked Colin.

"No. We now have a Minister of Magic, Cornelius Fudge, whose chief support comes from several wealthy individuals who I am certain were death eaters, but who bought their way out of conviction. When the previous minister, Millicent Bagnold, retired, he used that support to claim the role of Minister."

"That always puzzled me," said Colin. "Magic can be used to determine if a person is being truthful. Why don't you require everybody who joins the ministry to take a magical oath that they are not working for any other master, and that as long as they work for the Ministry they will not?"

"The Wizengamot won't let us," said Madame Bones.

"And who elects the Wizengamot?" Colin inquired.

Madame Bones snorted. "The Wizengamot is a cross between your House of Lords and a bureaucracy. Three things influence who sits on the Wizengamot. Those three things are money, magical power, and the Minister. Most of the Wizengamot are wizards from old families who effectively own their seats. They are not elected. Wizards with a great deal of power, like Dumbledore, tend to get appointed by a majority as a result of heroic deeds; in Dumbledore's case, defeating the dark wizard Grindlewald. Some high officials in the Ministry get seats by virtue of their position—for example, I have a seat as director of the DMLE. And the Minister has a few discretionary appointments within the Ministry that have automatic seats on the Wizengamot. His assistant, for example."

Colin, Petunia and Vernon were all aghast. "No democracy?"

"None," answered Madame Bones.

"And so effectively, if you want to change how the Ministry operates, you either have to have a lot of money, or you have to go to war."

"That's correct."

"How much power does Dumbledore have?"

"Dumbledore has the admiration of a fair number of Wizengamot families. He doesn't control a majority, but nobody else does either. So he has some influence, but he can't push anything through without the help of factions other than his own."

"And how do you feel about this, Ms.-I-mean-Madame Bones," asked Vernon.

Madame Bones smiled at Vernon's slip. "I would like to see it change."

"But you wouldn't like to see a war, and you don't have money, right?"

"Right." Madame Bones smiled sadly.

"Neither do we. But our children's lives are at stake. Suppose we could come up with a third approach. How would you feel about that?"

"I am open to discussion, as long as it is legal."

Despite the fortification of the tea, Harry and Dudley were not really following the discussion. When Dudley finally fell asleep, his teacup dropped to the floor with a loud thump.

"Let's put the children to bed," suggested Petunia. Madame Bones vanished the spill.

"Mum, ask her about the Lovegoods!" urged Harry.

"Xeno and Pandora?" asked Madame Bones.

"Luna!" said Harry.

A light dawned. "Ah, yes. And interesting girl. They live in a town called Ottery St. Catchpole, a bit south of Ottery St. Mary on the Otter river. Lovely location—there's a deep wood there with quite a few magical creatures not found elsewhere in the south of England. Perfect for that lot—they're a bit odd, but they love their magical creatures."

"How old is she?" asked Harry.

"I think she's a year younger than you are, Harry," said Madam Bones.

"Are the Lovegoods trustworthy?" asked Petunia. "Would it be safe for Harry and Dudley to visit them?"

"Pandora is a powerful witch. I'm sure her wards are adequate to the task. And the Lovegoods wouldn't harm a flea. Well, except to protect their daughter. Heaven help you if you cross them. Even You-Know-Who never tested Pandora."

Petunia smiled. "Wonderful! They've invited Harry for tea."

"Oh, I think the kids will have a great deal of fun."

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* * *

Nanettez asks,

_How did Bella use a wand if she is a squib?_

It appears to be the case that squibs are not non-magical. They just don't have the ability to perform magic. If you look at Filch, he could see Hogwarts, and was able to navigate the castle, including, one assumes, all the trick doors and so on. And Mrs. Figg also seems to be able to get around the magical world generally. She shows up for Order meetings at Grimmauld Place, for example. So I think it's reasonable to think that squibs can activate enchanted objects and things like that. And since the entrance at the Leaky Cauldron requires a wand to operate, it makes sense that she would have one. It just wouldn't do her much good other than for this one purpose.

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* * *

Naya Snake asks,

_Interesting, I like Dudley as a wizard "because he wanted it so badly"; but why there are Squibs, then?_

_Why should they reject magic when it brings them only problems?_

_I also enjoy a nice explanation of the Dursley's hatred to magic and how it was overcome._

First, full disclosure, I just don't like books that exclude people because of genetics. So I like the idea that Colin, coming from a different world, has a different view of how it works that is consistent and has useful implications for the story. So in my AU, magic is chosen during childhood, and once that choice has been made, it's locked in as the child becomes preadolescent. If you study the progress of the formation of self in the psychological literature, this kind of makes sense.

Why would a magical child not choose magic? Most likely trauma, either experienced or witnessed. This seems pretty plausible—a lot of magical families are pretty horrible, and the things that affect childhood development can be a bit obscure. And the problem is, once the choice is made and the child reaches preadolescence, it's too late to go back, without a _lot_ of work. That's the process that Petunia is about to undergo.

Dudley doesn't become a wizard because he wants it so badly. He becomes a wizard because he has internalized the reality of magic as a result of Harry being outed by Vernon at age six, and he wants it. He doesn't even have to want it a lot—he just has to choose, unconsciously. Most muggle children never get to make this choice because magic doesn't have that level of reality for them—a muggleborn child either was exposed to real magic at some point, or else got extremely lucky (or unlucky, depending on how you look at it!).

I couldn't tell if that last line was a question—I think it's answered in chapter 7, and also foreshadowed in the last line of Chapter 1. :)

* * *

BTW, sorry there's so much magical polisci in this chapter. This is just what the characters wanted to talk about. I'm looking forward to the visit to the Rookery. :)


	11. Quaffers

Harry woke early the next day. There was quite a bit to do—the adults hadn't cleaned up after the dinner party. It was a half hour of puttering about collecting dirty dishes, managing the compost, and finally washing everything, before Harry was even able to get a start on breakfast.

Harry's breakfast cooking had improved over the years. When the Dursleys came downstairs one by one, they were greeted by a table with omelets, fried spinach, breakfast potatoes and some leftover haricots verts from the previous night, all arranged on chaffing plates. Wisps of steam were still escaping the pot of tea that was resting under one of Petunia's floral tea cozies in the center of the tableau.

Vernon wolfed his breakfast down quickly—he had an early meeting at Grunnings. Vernon had given Harry and Dudley a bit of a lecture about the drill market the previous week, by way of explaining that there were only so many drills that could be sold in the U.K. market, and so Grunnings would be adding a new line of tools. The first of these would be something called a router, which could be used to make grooves in pieces of wood. Vernon had managed to convince Harry that this was useful when he explained it, but Harry still couldn't really picture what it was for.

Petunia shooed Harry away when he went to clean the breakfast plates. "You've done enough already this morning, dear. Breakfast was lovely! Let me take care of this."

Feeling a bit usurped, Harry nevertheless went off with Dudley. They got to talking about Luna's note, and Harry realized with some embarrassment that he didn't actually know what to do next.

"So, how do you think we go about floo calling someone?" Harry asked Dudley.

"I don't know. Luna didn't explain—she thinks we already know how. Let's ask mother."

"How would she know? She's not a wizard."

"You have a point. Should we just try it and see? I wish it had come with instructions!"

The two boys sat in front of the fireplace concentrating for a while. Harry brightened. "It must require floo powder. Let's see." He grabbed a handful of floo powder and tossed it in. A green flame burst into being in the fireplace.

"Brilliant. Now what, maybe call out or something?" said Dudley.

"Hm, it says here 'The Rookery,'" said Harry. The flames brightened a bit. "The Rookery," Harry enunciated clearly. Nothing happened. "The Rookery," a bit slower and louder. "Luna Lovegood."

Suddenly a face appeared in the fireplace, formed out of green flame. Harry and Dudley leapt back in alarm. "What? Who's there?" asked the face.

"Oh," said Harry. "I'm terribly sorry, we're just learning to work this thing. Do you know a 'Luna Lovegood?'"

"Why yes, that's my daughter," replied the face. "And who are you young fellows?"

"I'm Harry Dursley, and this is my brother Dudley," answered Harry.

"Ah. Greetings! Luna was looking forward to hearing from you. I'm glad you've called! Come on through, then. Luna is out in the garden."

"Mum, we're going to visit Luna," Dudley yelled.

"Okay, dear! Be careful!" replied Petunia.

The two boys clambered through the fireplace. The journey took a bit longer than the trip to Diagon Alley, but in no time the two boys tumbled out of the fireplace and landed in a heap at the feet of a small, blonde-haired woman with silvery eyes and a very amused expression. "I can see that you two need to practice your transitions," she observed.

The boys looked around. There was a spiral staircase in the middle of the room, hanging unsupported in midair, leading both upstairs and down. The walls were a lovely aquamarine hue, with ivory piping and beautiful paintings of animals and plants. They seemed to be in a sort of kitchen. Bright sunlight lit the room; Dudley and Harry felt immediately at home and welcome.

The witch smiled warmly as she watched them take in the room. "Xeno is quite the painter," she said. "Now, Luna is outside. She believes she has cornered a crumple-horned snorkack in its burrow in the snapdragon bed."

"Are they dangerous?" asked Harry, a bit concerned. He'd been bitten by a stoat that he'd cornered accidentally in the garden the previous year, and had to have stitches. So he'd developed a healthy respect for the sorts of animals that can be found in gardens.

"Not to worry, dear. The crumple-horned snorkack is a vegetarian."

"So are stoats," he replied.

"In any case, the crumple-horned snorkack is native to Gascony and Saintonge. I suspect that what she's actually found is a hedgehog."

"And they don't bite?" asked Harry.

"My, you're a chary little one, aren't you?" said the witch. "Don't worry, I'm a dab hand with healing charms. Comes with the territory, being a Mum, you know. If the hedgehog bites you, come right in before you bleed out, and I'll take care of it." She rolled her eyes slightly as she spoke, smiling gently.

* * *

Not entirely reassured, Harry nevertheless followed Dudley out into the garden, where they found a diminutive blonde girl squatting before a hole underneath some snapdragons, which were violently in bloom. The garden was lovely. Neatly weeded, with little walkways amongst the flowers and herbs, covered in paving stones.

Each bed was edged in and raised using thick twigs pounded into the ground one against the next, forming perfect tiny walls to hold in the dirt. The air was filled with tantalizing scents. Harry was able to detect various spices with which he was familiar. Rosemary, thyme, surprisingly even saffron, a flower which Harry knew did not grow in England.

The flower bed was bursting with various flowers: roses, hydrangea, lilies-of-the-valley, tulips, tiger lilies, and of course the large cluster of snapdragons before which the girl, presumably Luna, was squatting.

"Shh! I think he's about to poke his snout out of the hole," said Luna, very softly. The boys stilled and waited. Moments later, a hedgehog snout poked out, sniffing. Soon the whole hedgehog followed. Luna put her hand forward; Harry tensed. The hedgehog gently licked her hand, then lost interest and wandered off, stopping from time to time to nibble on the end of one of the garden plants.

"It wasn't a snorkack," ventured Dudley.

"Oh, that's okay, I suspected it was a hedgehog, but it never hurts to be optimistic. Cute little thing, isn't it?"

"Won't it wreck your garden with all that nibbling?" asked Harry.

Luna looked at Harry, surprised. "Aren't we witches and wizards, Harry? A little growth spell will take care of that. And in exchange we have a little friend with us as we garden."

Excited, Harry asked, "do you cast growth spells, then?"

"I haven't got my wand yet," Luna answered ruefully. "I have to get Mother or Father to do it. Three years to go! What about you two?"

"Two years, I think," said Harry.

"Brilliant! You can tell me all about it!" Luna grinned enthusiastically. "Speaking of which…"

"The Rotfang conspiracy?" asked Harry.

"Yes," answered Luna, suddenly focused on Harry as if he were the only thing in her world.

"I'm terribly sorry to have to disappoint, but Dudley and I are not from the continent, as you may have gathered from our rather ordinary accents. What _is_ the Rotfang Conspiracy anyway?"

Luna smiled. "Just some nonsense I made up. Not to worry. I will admit that I was hoping you were from someplace exotic, but with a name like Dursley, that wasn't the most likely hypothesis, was it?"

"No," smiled Harry, amused. He had been reading "Danny Dunn" recently—an American series about a boy scientist. Luna was reminding him oddly of Professor Bullfinch, one of the characters in the books, who liked to use words like "hypothesis." Harry could easily imagine Professor Bullfinch in a garden waiting to see what came out of a hole.

"So are you muggle-born, then? How did you learn you were wizards?"

Harry realized that he should probably not tell the whole story, but Dudley burst in. "Harry's parents were wizards, but they were killed by Voldemort!"

"I'm so sorry, Harry," said Luna. "So you are adopted, then?"

"Yes. What does 'muggle-born' mean?"

"Oh, that your parents aren't magical. Magicals refer to non-magicals as muggles."

"That's a bit weird, isn't it?" asked Harry. "It sounds a bit like a put-down."

Luna thought for a moment. "It hadn't occurred to me. I don't actually know any muggles. But if it bothers you, I will just say 'non-magicals.'"

"Okay," said Harry, happy that his deflection had worked. "Anyway, Dudley's parents are my aunt and uncle, and so they adopted me. I call Dudley my brother now, because they are my family. And they are indeed non-magical."

"My Mum is going to become magical, though," said Dudley.

"Dudley!"

Dudley stopped for a moment, and then a realization dawned on his face. "Well, anyway, she wants to," Dudley said.

"I don't think that's possible," said Luna. "But wouldn't it be interesting if it were? Do you think everyone would do it? What would happen?"

"Our friend Colin says that it's not actually a good idea for everybody to become wizards," said Harry. "Magic is really fun, but it's also dangerous. Look at Voldemort!"

"Yes," said Luna thoughtfully. "Magic wasn't very kind to him, was it?"

* * *

The children played in the garden until lunchtime, and then the witch called them in to eat. "Dudley, Harry," she said, "I realized that I never introduced myself. My name is Pandora. As you may have gathered, I am Luna's mother."

A tall, fit man with long, smoothly flowing blond hair came down the stairs, eyes twinkling and curious as he saw the two boys and Luna together. "And I am Xeno," he said. "I'm so glad you've come. Luna can be a bit isolated here. There are a few neighbors, but they are all quite a long distance away. I hope we'll see you often!"

Harry was a bit confused. After all, they'd come all the way from Surrey. Surely the neighbors could use the floo as well?

Lunch was a casserole made from mushrooms, pasta and root vegetables. It was held in a cream sauce, with spices from the garden. As promised, nettle-and-mint tea was served. Harry took a sip and then looked up at Luna. "It's quite mild!" he said in surprise.

"We use chocolate mint, not peppermint," Luna said, seeing his expression. "It's more like a moroccan mint tea. But the nettles add a richness to it. We used to use peppermint, but it was much too strong."

"It's quite good," said Harry appreciatively. "The casserole as well. May I have the recipe?"

Pandora looked askance at Harry. "I think it might be a bit challenging for such a young lad. Do you cook, then, or is it for your mother?"

Harry had no idea what she meant. "Well, I suppose it might be difficult. Is the roux particularly touchy? Do you roast the vegetables before you add them, or just cook it all together at once?"

Surprised but delighted, Pandora exclaimed "Oh my, Harry! It sounds like you are going to have a natural talent for potions, if you are asking questions like that at your age! This will be very exciting. I hope that once you've gotten the basics from Professor Snape, you can come brew with me in my potions lab downstairs," said Pandora.

"I'd love that!" said Harry, eyes shining. He had had no idea that cooking would be useful for a wizard. "What kind of potions do you brew? I don't know anything about potions!"

"I am a magical experimentalist," replied Pandora. "I'm more of an expert in charms, but I have a few potions that I brew to enhance intelligence, because it helps me with my charms work, and I also experiment with charmed potions, and potions that deliver charms.

"This can be very useful for healing: some potions can't be safely drunk, but are very effective if they can reach the bloodstream, so a charm to keep them isolated until they are absorbed allows us to deliver medications that would otherwise be impossible to use.

"Similarly, when there is bleeding inside of the body, for example, a simple healing charm could fix it, but only if that part of the body can be reached. It is possible to brew a potion that can act as a carrier for a charm, so that it can be delivered where it is needed in the body.

"I have a long-term contract with St. Mungo's to work on potions like these. It is very interesting work. Unfortunately, I can't seem to get Luna interested. I suspect that she will be a magical botanist or a cryptozoologist when she grows up." Pandora smiled indulgently at her daughter. "But Luna, if you change your mind, you know I'd love to have you as a lab partner."

Luna smiled at her mother, rolling her eyes. "I know, Mum. I love you too!"

* * *

After lunch, Luna, Harry and Dudley went for a walk in the forest. Harry was expecting Luna to point out all sorts of magical species, but it seemed that that wasn't her goal. After about an hour of walking, the trio came to a clear hilltop where they could look down to a town on the ocean that Luna said was Sidmouth, and off to the west the small village of Tipton St. John. The Rookery could be seen at the top of another hill, standing tall and narrow very much like the chess piece after which it was named.

Luna pointed out a house down toward Sidmouth. It was tall, sort of boot-shaped, and seemed a bit rickety. "That's the the Burrow."

"Doesn't look much like a Burrow," remarked Dudley. "Looks more like a shoe."

"Doesn't it, though," said Luna, with an amused look. "That's where the Weasleys live. I think they call it the Burrow because it sounds cozy. Ginny Weasley is a friend of mine. She has about ten older brothers. I'm not sure. Her next eldest is Ronald. You might like him. He's not very nice to me, but I think it's a boy thing. No offense meant, of course."

Harry wondered what "a boy thing" might be. He had noticed that the boys and girls at school tended to separate out, but he and Dudley had been spared that a bit because they were never really able to form close friendships anyway. Maybe "a boy thing" was code for being like Piers Polkiss?

"Is he a bully?" Harry asked.

"No. Well, maybe. I think maybe he feels a little bit bullied. All those older brothers, you know. Even if they aren't trying."

Harry nodded, understanding.

Near the house were a set of three hoops, rather high up in the air. Dudley noticed them first. "What are those hoops?" he asked, looking at Luna.

"Quidditch," said Luna in a disgusted tone of voice.

"Quidditch?" prompted Dudley.

"It's a stupid sort of ball game that you play on brooms. There are three balls and a snitch. The idea is to get one of the balls, the 'quaffle,' through the hoops to score. Two of the balls, 'bludgers,' are used to batter the players on the other team so that they don't score. You see a lot of injuries from that."

"What's the snitch?" asked Harry.

"Dumbest part of the game, if you ask me. There's one player on each team, the 'seeker,' whose job it is to watch for the snitch. It's charmed to hide, and then appear suddenly and flee whoever chases it. If the seeker catches it, it ends the game, and adds a hundred fifty points to the seeker's team's score."

"Sounds like that would make for very short games and very unpredictable outcomes," said Harry.

"Precisely. I don't understand it. But it's very popular in the wizarding world."

"What do you mean it's played on brooms," asked Dudley.

"Well, how else are they going to get up there."

"You mean they use brooms to knock the quaffer into the hoops?"

"No, silly, they _ride_ on the brooms."

Harry and Dudley both looked at each other, nonplussed. Then Harry thought of something he'd seen in one of his Danny Dunn books, about Hallowe'en. "OH! You mean like old witches riding around on broomsticks?"

Luna looked at Harry. "Oh, right. You're a mug—from a non-magical family. You wouldn't have seen this. Yes, witches really do ride on brooms. We have to be careful about it, so that non-magicals don't see us, but they're a pretty good way to get around."

"Oh, and look, the hoops are hidden behind that bluff, aren't they?" said Dudley.

"Exactly," said Luna. "The non-magicals who live down in Sidmouth can't see them play. Although what they do about hikers up here in the hills I don't know."

* * *

The trio remained on the hilltop for quite some time, sitting in companionable silence and enjoying the view. Eventually Luna pointed out that it was getting late, and so the three children clambered down from the hilltop and found their way back to the Rookery. Pandora suggested that they should head home before dinnertime. Luna insisted on hugging Harry and Dudley goodbye, as did Pandora. Xeno was a bit more reserved, but clearly appreciated their visit.

"Dursley Manor," intoned Harry as Dudley tossed floo powder into the fireplace. The two boys jumped through and emerged into the Dursley sitting room, peppered with soot, struggling to retain their balance. Harry almost had it, but Dudley didn't quite manage, and grabbed Harry on the way down.

Petunia found the two boys in a pile on the living room floor, with Harry punching Dudley affectionately. "Boys! Behave!" she exclaimed, smiling delightedly at seeing the two boys playing so well together. She could not help but remember with shame a time when she'd encouraged Dudley to treat Harry quite poorly. It was amazing to see the boys bounce back from that. "How was your day?"

"We saw a hedgehog," exclaimed Harry.

"And we learned about quaffers!" added Dudley.

"Can we add Luna to the wards?" asked Harry.

"I don't see why not," said Petunia. "I'll send an owl off to Professor Dumbledore." She marveled at how comfortably that sentence came out of her mouth. Things really had changed at the Dursley household. She didn't know what the future held, but at least it was interesting so far.


	12. Practice

_I've included a summary of the story so far since there's been such a long gap since the last chapter. If you don't need this, just skip past it to the next section._

Harry saved Petunia from an extended coma using semi-accidental magic. The Dursleys woke up to how awful they had been (there's more backstory on why, but you have to read the previous chapters if you don't remember). Harry and Dudley are now nine years old. Harry has been living with the New Improving Dursleys since just before his sixth birthday. Dudley is still a bit of a git, but much better, and considers Harry a friend/sibling and not a chew-toy.

No. 4 has a floo address, Dursley Manor. The wards are very tight. Harry and Dudley have met Luna, and learned a bit from Luna about Quidditch. Luna's mom, Pandora, is still alive, and she and Harry get on like a house on fire. Luna is already on the hunt for the crumple-horned snorkack. They are kids in a world of magic, in which magic happens to work.

Meanwhile, the Dursley elders, a Buddhist chaplain and computer geek named Colin whom they met in the hospital, and Arabella ("Bella") Figg (collectively the Council of Elrond) are all conspiring to save the wizarding world from Voldemort's second coming, using cunning and not just bravery.

On Harry's ninth birthday, he and Dudley are attacked by Penelope Greengrass, who is an Auror for the Ministry of Magic. They had met her previously when she and her partner were investigating an incident of accidental magic that Harry and Dudley (!) had done.

Dumbledore is still doing his thing, but considers the Council to be allies, and they do as well, but are not being entirely open with Dumbledore because he has a reputation for not reciprocating. Amelia Bones is in the loop, but not part of the Council.

The children are explicitly included, because the adults realize that there's no point in trying to shield them, but they're being cared for like children. Everyone in the Council knows that Harry is a horcrux, and they are all practicing occlumency, thanks to Colin's meditation instruction. Dumbledore knows that they know. He doesn't know that they've established communication with the horcrux.

Pandora, Xeno and Luna are not privy to the Council's activities, at least at present. We'll have to see how that develops. Right now the main activities of the Council are intelligence-gathering (they met the Lovegoods because they publish a journal) and training. Petunia has undertaken a vision quest of sorts, in search of magic. Vernon still prefers not to be a magical, but is okay with Petunia's quest. Dudley has convinced Colin to teach him and Harry karate.

~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~

* * *

Harry, Dudley and Luna sat together on a mat, looking expectantly at Colin.

"Stand up and bow, like this," Colin demonstrated. The trio stood up and mimicked Colin's bow. "Good. This is how we begin and end all classes, and all matches between students. You should think of it as giving respect to the teacher.

"Think carefully here. This may sound minor, but it's quite important. The goal is not for you to show your respect for the teacher. It's to put your mind in a receptive state, by _generating_ respect for the teacher.

"Can anyone tell me why we bow at the beginning of a match?"

The children thought for a moment, but none of them had any idea.

"Okay," said Colin. "Why do we bow to the teacher?"

"To generate respect," Harry repeated back what Colin had said.

"Right. What's similar about someone you're sparring with?"

"We might learn something when we spar with them?" Harry offered.

"That's close, Harry, but is there any reason for sparring _other_ than to learn?"

"Because it's **fun**!" said Dudley.

Colin rolled his eyes and smiled at Dudley. "Well, okay, maybe there are two reasons, but a good sparring match is more hard work than it is fun, and it can be painful as well. Your partner really is your teacher, just as much as I am. You have no hope of actually learning karate without your partner. When you bow to your partner, you should remember that. What you are doing is called _priming_, and it really helps with the learning process.

"Next, do we bow when we begin a real fight?"

"That would be odd," said Luna.

"Yes, it would. The right thing to do when you see a fight coming, if you can, is to turn and run. Fighting is dangerous, and no matter how skilled you are, you can make a mistake. Also, fighting styles all have weaknesses. There is no fighting style that makes you invulnerable. Dudley, how did I defeat Penelope?"

Dudley thought for a moment. He remembered Colin punching Penelope in the face, and her dropping like a puppet whose strings had been cut. "You punched her really hard!"

"That's true," said Colin. "What you boys saw was actually a perfect example of the 'one-punch' ideal of Karate: to defeat your opponent with a single punch. What do we need to do to defeat an opponent with one punch? Luna?"

"You need to hit them really hard?"

"Yes. That's two things. One, I need to hit them. Two, I need to hit them really hard. In order to hit an opponent, you have to surprise them: you have to do something they aren't expecting, and which they aren't able to successfully counter.

"But that's not good enough. You have to hit them hard enough that they don't get up. What's the problem with this?"

The students looked a bit blank. Nobody raised their hand, so Colin went on.

"There are two problems. The main one I want you to think about is that if you hit someone that hard, you are going to hurt them. You might even kill them. My punch could have killed Penelope. I didn't want to kill her, but I punched her that hard anyway. Why?"

The children thought for a while, and Colin waited. Finally Harry said "because she had tried to kill us?"

"Right. Does that make killing her okay?"

"I don't think so," said Dudley. "She seemed nice when we met her on the playground. Why did she want to kill us?"

"I don't think she did want to kill all of us, Dudley. I think she wanted to kill Harry. We think it's because she was a follower of Voldemort, but that doesn't help much, does it? Do you think it matters why she wanted to kill Harry?"

"Yes," said Harry.

"Why?"

"Maybe she had a good reason, or thought she did?"

"Okay, but should I have asked her to explain before I decided to punch her?"

"No, I guess that wouldn't have worked."

"So now you see the problem, right? In this case she'd cast a fireball at the two of you, which fortunately missed, and she cast a killing curse at me, which didn't work, so I at least knew _what_ she was trying to do, if not _why_. There was no time to decide. I responded automatically. I'm really glad my punch didn't kill her, but I'm also really glad that it stopped her."

Colin stopped and looked at each of the kids in turn. "Why am I telling you this now?" he asked.

"So that we don't kill each other when we're sparring?" asked Luna.

Colin smirked. "Yes, definitely don't do that. Why else?"

They all thought for a while, and then Harry stiffened. "I think I know. It's because when we get good at this, we will be dangerous. We could hurt people."

"Yes. That exactly. Well spotted, Harry. I am about to teach you how to hurt people. Do you want to be a person who hurts people?"

All three children shook their heads gravely.

"Good. I'm glad to know that. So when I teach you this practice, one of my goals is to teach you how to avoid hurting people when you shouldn't, but still to be able to protect people when you should. It will take you a very long time to get good enough at this that you are able to make a decision, and to decide correctly, as you are throwing a punch, how hard you should hit. But you still have to practice. We have punching bags for that.

"The way Karate works is that I first teach you a series of dances, called _katas_, which you practice until you can do them in your sleep. These teach you to react automatically. When you have mastered the first kata, we will begin to spar, and you will learn both to throw punches, and to block punches. And when you become good at this, you will be dangerous.

"You _can't get into fights_ anymore. You must always be trying to avoid getting into fights. Harry, if I insult you, is it okay to punch me?"

"No!" Harry exclaimed, taken aback.

"Okay, what if I insult your father? What if I say something really mean about your parents?"

Harry grimaced. "It's not okay for you to say something mean about my parents."

"No, it's not. Is it okay for you to punch me when I do?"

Harry thought about what it was like when the Dursleys were being mean to him. If he could have punched Aunt Petunia, and gotten away with it, would he have wanted to? He imagined doing it. It felt wrong. He remembered Petunia lying still on her hospital bed, and how Dudley and Vernon had reacted to that.

"No, even if someone is being really awful, it's not okay to hurt them," he said sadly.

"Indeed. Part of the training is to develop a sense of responsibility about how you will use what you have learned. You won't ever pick fights. You will learn to hear fighting words and let them slide off of you without touching you. You must, or you will hurt someone."

They all sat silently for a bit.

~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~

* * *

Petunia was having trouble. She'd been given an assignment: make a list of everyone you have known, enough that you can still picture them in your mind. First she'd gone through friends and family, which wasn't too difficult. Then teachers, and school chums. The lady who'd worked at the Sainsbury until last year, whom she knew to nod to as she paid for her groceries.

The list wasn't so hard. It was what she had to do with it that was hard. Colin had said "bring the person to mind, and then bring up love." But she found that the emotion that came up most was guilt. Guilt for how she treated her sister. For how she treated her parents. Especially for how she treated Harry. Even for how she had treated Dudley, spoiling him instead of setting boundaries. "What sort of mother lets her child shoot an air rifle in the car?", she wondered.

How was she going to do it? She sat, thinking about Lily. She'd loved Lily before the Hogwarts letter came. She'd enjoyed having a little sister, even if she was prettier. Enjoyed being the big sister. Then the magic had come and her parents were so impressed. Dumbledore had refused to take Petunia at Hogwarts. She'd sunk into a depression all that summer, and cut Lily dead at every opportunity, never giving her a smile, pretending that she didn't notice how it hurt her.

It hadn't gotten better. Lily had spent her summers with Severus, because Petunia didn't want to see her anymore. How silly she had been. Had rejecting her sister made her happier? Not in the slightest. Why had she been so competitive? Why hadn't she been happy for her sister? She'd wanted to be magical too, but blaming Lily? Blaming Mum? It had hardly been _their_ fault!

Around and around the thoughts went. Finally, Petunia gave up on Lily and went to the next person on the list. Her mother. Before the Hogwarts letter, they had been close. After, Petunia's resentment at Lily's magic had driven a wedge between them. Petunia thought about how her mother had reacted. At the time, she had felt that her mother had played favorites, praising Lily, but never Petunia.

Was it really true? She couldn't tell. It had been so long since she'd seen her mother alive. Now, she didn't care who was the favorite. She just missed her mother.

Frustrated, Petunia got up from where she was sitting at the table and began pacing. Who did she love? She tried Dudley, but the guilt came back. All the time that she'd let her desire for normalcy cloud her judgment. How she'd doted on Dudley without teaching him the lessons he'd needed. She was working to try to undo the damage, and it seemed to be helping. But Dudley still seemed to misbehave more than Harry; never seemed to help out as much as Harry did.

Then she had a terrible thought. What if _she_ was playing favorites? What if _she_ was making Dudley resent Harry? Would Dudley turn against them the way she had turned against her mother and Lily?

Frustrated, she screwed up the list and binned it with a deft toss. Briefly pleased that her shot had made it, she remembered how long it had taken to write, and fished it back out. With a sigh, she went into the kitchen and started on dinner.

~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~

* * *

"Did you get a new wand?"

"Yes," said Penelope. "Ollivander was his usual odd self. The new wand feels different, but seems to fit. I wish I knew who had stunned me and snapped it, though. I understand why they robbed me, but if they were going to do something with the wand, why not just take it?"

"That is indeed a puzzle. Perhaps a muggleborn or half-blood who doesn't like purebloods?"

"Perhaps, although I don't see why they'd come after _me_. It's not as if I'm one of those pureblood bigots, throwing their weight around and trying to make peoples' lives more difficult for no good reason."

"Indeed. Anything to report on the Potter front?"

"No," said Penelope, frustration evident. "Potter hasn't left the property since his birthday."

"Not once? How is that possible?"

"I don't know! He's a nine-year-old boy, and he's been cooped up in there for weeks without ever venturing outdoors! I haven't seen his cousin either!"

"Do you think they've done accidental magic again? Are they living somewhere else? Have you noticed any activity in the house?"

"Potter comes out to work in the garden, but he never crosses the wards. Dudley hardly comes out at all, which is strange, considering where we discovered them."

"At a playground. Indeed. What about the parents?"

"Vernon drives to work every day. Petunia goes shopping. Just never with Potter."

"Do you think they have magical help?"

"It could be. Dumbledore came by several times. They could be using a portkey."

"Or maybe the floo network? Is it possible that they have a hookup?"

Penelope considered for a bit. "I suppose it's possible. I didn't think muggles could use it, but I don't _know_ that they can't. It would certainly explain a lot."

"Can you access the records?"

"Not without tipping my hand. They will want a warrant before they'll give out information like that. If they do have a connection, there could be a watch order on the file, and then if I try to get it, it'll set off an alarm."

"Okay. Let's take a different approach. If they have a floo, where would the children be going that would get them outside?"

"Could be anywhere. Hogsmeade, maybe? Diagon Alley wouldn't be a very good place to go. Maybe they've been visiting one of the dark families? The Malfoys, perhaps? They would welcome a muggleborn if their Dark Lord demanded it."

"That's a thought. Ask the children if they've heard anything."

"I'll do that," said Penelope. "Even if we don't find out, I can't imagine how the children will be able to avoid going out of the house when school starts. Perhaps that will be our opportunity to finally put an end to this."

"There's one thing that continues to bother me, though."

"What's that?"

"How is it that they are being so cautious? What do they know? Is there any way that Shacklebolt could have noticed your interest in Potter?"

"I don't see how. I mean, I was surprised to see him, but so was Kingsley. It's not as if I have anything against the poor child. I really can't imagine how I could have given myself away."

"Is it possible that they know we've been watching the house?"

"Perhaps. We checked very carefully for wards, but I suppose we could have missed something. Or _they_ could be watching the house as well, and could have spotted us somehow."

"Good thought. Let's see if we can spot their watchers. That would explain why they are playing it safe, but if they really are aware that we are watching, we can expect them to take action before school starts."

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* * *

"How did you do it?" asked an angry, agitated voice.

Harry had been sleeping. He rubbed his eyes and looked around. "Who?" he said, confused.

"How did you defeat me?"

Harry realized that there hadn't been any sound. It was as if it was his own thought, only not a thought he could imagine thinking.

"Shut up and let me sleep," he thought.

"HOW DID YOU DEFEAT ME?!" A sharp pain stabbed at Harry's forehead.

"I don't even know what you're talking about! Who are you? Why won't you let me sleep?"

"It is I, Lord Voldemort. I slew your parents."

"I defeated you using the mighty power of poo."

"What? What's that?"

"It's a joke. I have no idea how you were defeated. All I remember is you killing my parents, and then pain."

"Think back. Show me."

Harry felt a push on his mind. He remembered the green flash and the evil cackle. Then he remembered what Colin had taught him, and turned his attention to the breath.

"SHOW ME" A hard push toward the memory. Back to the breath.

"Crucio!"

"What's that supposed to mean?" asked Harry.

"Oh, what's the use? Trapped in the mind of an idiot." Harry got a mental image of a small child sulking, but there were no more words. After a while, he drifted off to sleep, his attention still on the breath.


	13. Pottering About

Harry, Dudley and Luna had become fast friends. Sparring together was hard work, but each child felt the benefit of it. For Harry, the physical activity was nothing new. He still did many of the chores around the Dursley house. The Dursleys were no longer asking him to, but he appreciated the slow rhythm of planting, weeding, and watching the flowers and vegetables grow. And because he'd learned to cook so young, it was easy and satisfying now that he was a bit older. And the Dursleys certainly appreciated what he did, which was a reward in itself.

Although she'd once been a fearsome figure to Harry, his feelings toward Petunia were now much softer. He could never forget those weeks sitting with her, wondering if she would ever wake up. That moment of being _seen_ for the first time, with appreciation, instead of fear and distaste. And all the times since then, being treated like a family member.

Because Colin was taking time off work, they had been able to have lessons nearly every day until school started. Once school started, lessons slowed down a bit, and a pattern developed: they'd get together once or twice a week during the week, when homework was light, to spar for an hour. One of them would do homework while the other two sparred, and they'd switch at the end of each match. Every day in the morning they'd practice forms together. And then on the weekend there'd be a long session with Colin teaching, not just supervising.

The sparring was pretty comical in the beginning. Mostly the kids would try to defend against attacks but react too late, and the different stances and movements between them were awkward. Often during a match the partners would wind up in a pile on the floor.

First kata was simple. Take a stance, then move forward and punch, then hop ninety degrees and repeat. It didn't take that long to learn the basic flow, and then it was just a matter of practicing and gaining fluency. The ninety-degree hops were the only difficult part. Colin described them as "impossible, but do it anyway." Standing in the basic defense posture, the transition involved hopping up and spinning ninety degrees to the right without moving the legs. Impossible! At first it really was. Harry would do it by moving the legs just a bit, but trying not to. Colin allowed the children to do it this way, but told them to keep looking for another way to do it.

One day, Harry was going through the kata and it just worked. There was a burst of tension in his abdomen, and suddenly he was in the new position, without doing anything to his leg muscles. He caught Colin's eye, and Colin smiled approvingly at him. There wasn't really much to say about it—he didn't know how to describe how he'd done it. But after that, first kata began to flow for him.

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* * *

Dudley and Harry were still visiting Luna every day on weekends at the Rookery. They continued to explore the hills around Ottery St. Catchpole. One Sunday, Luna proposed introducing Harry and Dudley to the Weasleys. Harry was feeling a bit antisocial and begged off, but Luna and Dudley went anyway, knowing Harry would have plenty to do around the Rookery.

Harry stayed with Pandora, who was working on several potions.

"Harry dear," said Pandora, "let's go out into the garden and gather some herbs? I need monkshood and catch pea pods for this potion."

They went out together and she guided him through the garden, pointing out plants. "Look, there's a ragweed. See how the leaves are like long fingers separating out from the center? That's called a palmate leaf. Ragweed leaf looks a bit like monkshood, but the flowers are different. Monkshood has lovely purplish-blue flowers; the flowers on ragweed are green and just look like little buds. Of course that only helps you when the plant is in bloom. See if you can find some monkshood now."

Harry looked around for a bit, finally locating a plant with blue flowers that had leaves similar to the ragweed. "Is this it?" he asked

"Yes, well spotted! Now, I want you to cut a plant for us to use. We'll need a whole plant, flowers and all. Don't handle it with your bare hands—it's poisonous. Not really dangerous to the touch, but don't get it in your eyes. Put on the gloves, cut a stalk with leaves and flowers, put it in the basket, take the gloves off, and then _don't touch_ them or the plant you've cut. You can use Luna's gloves—they should fit you." She handed him a pair of thin, well-used leather gloves, a flat wire basket, and a pair of shears with quite long, nearly parallel handles and short, neat blades.

Wearing the gloves, Harry cut the plant carefully and put it in the basket. He and Pandora continued through the garden looking for each of the herbs that Pandora needed. She instructed Harry on how to identify each one, and how to cut it.

Back in the lab, Pandora showed Harry how to prepare each herb for the potion. "When the potion calls for chopping, and doesn't say how thick, you should do it like this," she demonstrated, cutting the monkshood leaves in even strips about a millimeter wide. "Make sure you cut to a consistent width, so that every piece brews at the same rate. Here, you try."

Harry reached for the cutting knife, and Pandora stopped his hand. "What are you forgetting, Harry?" He thought for a moment, then picked up the gloves from the basket where he'd left them, put them on, and set to chopping.

Once the ingredients were prepared, Pandora began to brew the potion. As she brewed, she explained each step: not only what she was doing, but why. Much of what Pandora said was difficult for Harry to follow, but he understood enough of it that it was interesting. He enjoyed the cadence of her voice as she spoke, and they passed the morning this way.

On this particular morning, the potions work was finished before lunchtime. Luna and Dudley hadn't returned yet, so Harry and Pandora had a quiet lunch of cucumber sandwiches and a bit of hot and sour soup that Harry had wanted to experiment with. And peppermint-nettle tea, of course.

After he and Pandora had finished, he decided to go out and explore. Pandora gave him a little device that looked a bit like a wristwatch only with no hands on it and said "if you get into trouble and need help, tap this three times with your finger and it'll pull you back here."

"Can I do that if I get tired and don't want to walk?" Harry asked.

"It's better if you don't. This is called a portkey. They are easy to make and really useful for situations like this. The Ministry of Magic requires that they be registered, but it's too much trouble, so this one isn't. But it's better to make as few as possible, to avoid trouble," she sighed.

"Okay, I won't use it except in an emergency," said Harry, with a bright smile.

"Good. But _do_ use it if you need to!"

"I shall." Harry hugged Pandora goodbye and wandered off into the wood.

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* * *

The day was cloudy and cool, with the scent of autumn. The wood was dark, but welcoming. Crickets were singing, and occasionally Harry would hear the call of an unknown bird echoing amongst the trees. The leaves were starting to turn, but still mostly green.

Harry hiked for some time on paths he'd already done with Dudley and Luna, but without Dudley to slow him down, he made rapid progress, and eventually came to a point beyond where the three had previously ventured. He kept going, following the path he'd found as it meandered across the contours of the land. After some time the wood opened out away from the path into a clearing, where he discovered a lovely, well-kept garden.

Harry compared it in his mind to other gardens he knew. The garden at Dursley Manor (Harry had got out of the habit of calling Number 4 Privet Drive by its address, as he and Dudley used the floo nearly every day, so it had become Dursley Manor in his mind, despite being a rather modest house) was simple and elegant: lovely flowers, a patch of vegetables, neatly arranged to fit onto the small lot. It was more of an extension of the house, surrounding it like a garland, than a thing in itself.

The Lovegood's garden was in some ways quite the opposite: a kind of controlled chaos, with meandering paths, in which you could become happily lost: even though the rookery would always be visible, the feeling of the garden was that you were in a separate place.

This garden was something else again. When he first approached it, it was laid out before him like a giant quilt. But there was a clear path through the garden. The path did not go straight through the garden from the wood to the gate in the hedge opposite. Rather, it went for a bit, then stopped at a circle, then went for a bit more.

Curious, he walked the path, stopping at each circle. Each view of the garden seemed like a different garden. It was as if the whole garden were laid out specifically so that it could be seen from each stopping point as a new thing, completely unlike what was visible from the outside, or from another circle. Harry hoped he could meet the as-yet mysterious gardener who was the author of this wonder.

Across the garden was a tall hedge of poplar trees with a gate. He had seen the hedge and the gate from the wood, but as he grew closer, he realized that there was writing on it. Finally, he grew close enough to read it. In elegant, flowing calligraphy, it said, "Welcome to The Pottery". Interesting. "Are these people related to my father?" Harry wondered.

The gate opened as he approached, so he went through it. On the other side was a bit of lawn, enough that the poplar trees would not cast a shadow across the large house in the center. The path led up to a lovely garden porch at the back of the house.

Harry wasn't able to get a full sense of the house from the back, but it seemed to be a fairly large house built of pale dressed stone, with quite large gothic arch windows facing the lawn. It looked like it might have several towers on the front side. Harry turned back to look at the garden gate, and to his surprise noticed that the poplars had gone, and he could see the garden spread out past the lawn to the edge of the wood he'd come from.

At first, there was no-one in sight, but as Harry walked closer to the porch, there was a soft _pop_, and a tiny, wrinkled little person with ears more like a cat than his own, a large, bulbous nose, and bright yellow eyes appeared before him, wearing a rather odd outfit that reminded Harry of nothing so much as a tea cozy. "Master James! What has happened to you? Why is you so small? Where has you _been?_ Tiffen has been alone for so long!"

To Harry's dismay, the little person burst into tears and hugged Harry's leg. Harry patted her back gently and waited for her to stop crying, not knowing what else to do.

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* * *

After a while, the little person gathered herself together, took Harry's hand and led him into the house. "Would Master James like some tea?" she asked, in a hopeful tone of voice. Harry could not say no.

"Why are you calling me 'Master James?" he asked, once tea had been served. He noticed that the little person was not drinking. "Will you not have some tea too?"

The little person burst into tears again. Harry was getting a bit tired of this. "Master James wants me to have tea with him! Just like when he was a wee lad."

When this round of sobbing stopped, Harry looked at the little person pointedly and said "Please don't cry. It's very time consuming, and I do not wish to make you sad. Yes, I would like you to have tea. Please tell me your name, and tell me why you are calling me 'Master James.'"

The little person looked like she was going to burst into tears again, but she seemed to gather herself together, with great effort, and instead poured another cup of tea and took a sip.

"I is Tiffen, your house-elf. I has not Master James in nine years. You seem younger, and your eyes are a different color. They look just like Mistress Lily's."

Harry was stunned into silence, for a moment. After he had recovered, he said, in an awed tone of voice, "you knew my Mum and Dad!"

"You are not James, then." said Tiffen. "Where is James? Where is Lily?"

"They died, seven years ago. They were my parents."

Tiffen's eyes widened. She dropped her teacup, which shattered on the stone floor at her feet, and just sat there staring at Harry, tears flowing freely down her wizened cheeks. There were no histrionics this time. After a few minutes, she got up from her chair, stepping over the broken shards of teacup, came over to Harry, and looked at him soberly.

"Then you is my new master. I can feel it in the house magic. What is your name?"

"Harry."

"Tiffen is glad to meet you, Master Harry. She had hoped that Master James is still alive, even after the terrible events at the wedding. But she sees that the family magic passed to you. Your parents must have lived through the attack at the wedding—there was no child on the way then."

"I don't know much about what happened, Tiffen. I was a baby, remember. My Aunt and Uncle told me about the wedding. My parents got away safely. I don't understand why they didn't come back!"

Tiffen thought for a bit. "Tiffen was badly hurt at the wedding. It might have seemed as if she had died. House elves is very tough. Witches and wizards don't know. Tiffen woke up in bed in one of the bedrooms. There was dust everywhere. The house was empty. The garden was overgrown. Tiffen doesn't know how long she was asleep. But she felt better, and there was lots of work to do!"

"Are you the gardener, then?" Harry asked eagerly.

"Yes," she smiled. "Mistress Dorea always liked an elegant garden, and so I keep it the way she liked it. Do you like it?"

"It's brilliant! Is it your design?"

Tiffen brighened. "Yes! Tiffen has nothing to do for so many years, always waiting for Master to call, never being called. The garden keeps Tiffen alive."

"Who is Mistress Dorea?" asked Harry.

"She is being Master James' mother. Mistress died at the wedding, along with Master Charlus and Mistress Lily's parents. That bad wizard did it."

Crushed under the weight of so much dark history, Harry collapsed back in his chair, speechless. Tiffen seemed to understand. She fixed the broken cup, cleaned up the mess, and refreshed her tea and Harry's, and then sat waiting. Both of them sipped their tea for a while.

Finally, the weight of the ocean of years lifted, and Harry could speak again. "Why do you keep calling me Master, though? And what exactly is a house elf?"

"House elves is house elves! We takes care of magical houses. The house of a magical family has an energy that delights us. When we are allowed to stay, we enjoy the magical energy, and we take care of the house so that the magic will always stay. In order to partake of the house magic, we binds ourselves to the family. This means that we serves the family. Tiffen must always do as Master Harry asks, or the magic will be broken."

"What happens if the magic is broken?" asked Harry.

Tiffen shrugged. "Tiffen dies," she said.

"Why would you do that?"

"Tiffen was born into the magic. She has known no other way of living. She has heard of wild elves, but never seen one."

"Do you want to be a wild elf?" asked Harry.

"No. Tiffen likes being part of a family. Tiffen has missed it. She is glad to have Master Harry here, glad to have the family alive once again."

Harry didn't know what to make of this. He knew that he enjoyed keeping Petunia's garden, and cooking for the family. But to be bound to do it? He did not know if he would like that. But he had no idea what to do about it—he didn't want Tiffen to die either. And she seemed happy. So he decided to save the problem for later.

"Can you show me the house?"

"Of course." Tiffen led Harry on a tour, first of Dorea and Charlus' bedroom, which was quite a bit larger than his bedroom at Dursley Manor. Yet it still seemed cozy. On the bedside table was a picture of a man who looked quite a bit like Harry, and the red-haired woman he remembered from Petunia's dreams. He sat looking at it for quite a while before Tiffen tugged his hand and led him to the next room.

"Your father's room," she said. On the wall was an old wooden broom with a brush made of twigs and, weirdly, what looked like little wooden stirrups. He remembered Luna talking about Quidditch, and looked more closely at the posters on the walls. These mostly featured people sitting on brooms much like the one on the wall, only newer, zooming around after balls floating in the air. Harry thought that looked like fun, and resolved to go with Luna and Dudley next time they visited the Weasleys. Maybe they'd show him how to play.

Tiffen led him to another room, and he knew immediately that it was his mothers'. The closet held some robes that still had her familiar scent. A picture of James was on the night stand, and a trunk in the closet with some books in, and quite a stack of parchment with neat, elegant writing on it.

"Your mother moved into this room before the wedding," Tiffen said. "She and James were to live here until they could find a place of their own."

Next, Tiffen took him to a room that was decorated in florid red and orange drapes and wallpaper. On the wall hung posters of motorcycles, one with a side car and the logo "Triumph" beneath. A bookshelf had a collection of Haynes motorcycle repair manuals, leather-bound volumes with names that seemed vaguely magical on the spines, and a stack of cloth-bound journals.

One whole shelf was full of thin square cardboard envelopes, about 12" on a side, each containing a thin paper envelope that protected a black plastic disk with a hole in the center. The disks had a beautiful shimmer to them from what appeared to be tiny grooves cut into them in a spiral pattern. Many of the cardboard envelopes had fascinating pictures on them, or else just pictures of somewhat unkempt young people, mostly men, wearing strange clothes. "Sirius' room," said Tiffen fondly.

"Who's Sirius?"

"Sirius Black. Your dad's best friend, aside from Remus, of course. Sirius lived here the same as your father after his parents tried to force him to take the dark mark on his sixteenth birthday."

"The dark mark?"

"Followers of the bad wizard took a mark on their left arm. It meant that they were bound to the bad wizard's service, and the bad wizard could call them, and torture them through the mark if they didn't come."

"What kind of moron…" started Harry, but there was no need to finish. How could Tiffen answer that question? "So Sirius was a follower of Voldemort?"

Harry's scar stung. "LORD Voldemort, you insolent whelp!" came a thought. Harry rolled his eyes and ignored the editorial comment.

"No," said Tiffen. "They tried to make him take it, but he wouldn't. He hated the bad wizard. But his family… they were dark witches and wizards. When he escaped and came here, he was badly hurt. We were afraid he would die, but they were able to save him. He never went back to his family after that."

"Did he die in the attack?"

"Tiffen doesn't know. She was hit with a nasty curse shortly after Master Harry's grandparents were killed. Sirius was fighting like a demon. Such a powerful duelist he was. Nearly as good as your father, who was nearly as good as your mother."

Harry felt a touch of pride at that. "But he must have died. If he was my father's best friend, surely he would have come to find me after my parents died?"

"I don't know, Master Harry," said Tiffen. "That does make sense."

The next room, Tiffen said, was where Peter Pettigrew stayed before the wedding. "A bad wizard," Tiffen said. "Your parents liked him, but I never did. He was not nice to me. I did not obey him."

"Did you tell them?" asked Harry.

"Yes, but they didn't believe me. They thought it was just his upbringing."

Peter's room contained a trunk as well. "Don't touch that," said Tiffen, as Harry reached to open it. "It's cursed. Only Peter can open it without breaking the curse."

Disappointed, Harry decided he would have to learn how to break curses. Maybe Pandora could teach him.

"_Pandora!_ She's going to be frantic!" thought Harry.

"Tiffen, I think I need to go. Pandora will be worried."

Tiffen nearly glowed with delight. "Pandora! Tiffen loves Pandora. Such a sweet girl!"

Harry smiled back at her. "She's brilliant, yeah. But how can I find this place again? We've been walking in the wood for ages and never seen the garden _or_ the house!"

"That's because it's warded. When I woke up, the wards were locked down completely, full defense mode. Only family can get in, or even see it. Anyone else will just wander away when they reach the outer wards, without realizing that there's anything here. Only you can see the house or enter it, now," she said sadly.

"So I can retrace my steps if I'm alone?"

Tiffen looked puzzled. "Yes, of course, but you can just take the floo. It's 'The Pottery.'"

"Brilliant! Can I use that to get back to the Rookery?"

"I think so." Tiffen showed Harry to the arrival hall, a small room off the front entrance with a rather secure-looking door. She snapped her finger, and a fire lit in the fireplace. "Give it a try."

Harry took some floo powder, cast it into the grate, and said "The Rookery." The fire instantly went out.

"Hm," said Tiffen. "I think that the wards must be blocking information. You may find that when you get out of here, you can't even talk about the house or the gardens. You had best start home, if Pandora is expecting you."

Harry gave Tiffen a firm and tearful hug as he said goodbye. Tiffen hugged back just as firmly, and said "remember, Master Harry, if you need me, just say my name, wherever you are, and I will come."

"Cheers," said Harry gratefully, and with that he reluctantly left out the garden gate.

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* * *

The light was starting to go and a cool, misty rain was beginning to fall as he emerged from the wood. Pandora was at the door, a look of relief on her face. "I'm glad you're back, Harry. I was afraid you'd get lost out there in the dark. You shouldn't stay so late! Where were you?"

"At The Pottery," Harry tried to say, but the words caught in his throat. "In a garden," he tried again, but still the words wouldn't emerge. "I just found a really lovely place to stop and explore, and lost track of time," he finally said.

Pandora gave him a skeptical look, but welcomed him into the house. Dudley and Luna were already at the dinner table with Xeno, chattering happily about their visit to the Weasleys. The Weasleys had welcomed the pair, and Dudley had had his first go at Quidditch. Despite having fallen off his broom several times, he apparently had a jolly good time, and was full of talk about the Weasley boys, particularly Ron, who Dudley said was his and Harry's age.

"You have to come meet them next weekend!" said Dudley.

Harry smiled, thinking of his father's broom. "I shan't miss it!" he replied.


	14. Sympathy for the Devil

"Oh for pity's sake, will you stop your incessant moping?" came the voice.

Harry had been intrigued by the visit to his ancestral home at the weekend. But during the week, he couldn't go back—with school and homework, there was no time. He couldn't tell the Dursleys about it—he'd tried, and the words didn't come.

And so he had sunk into a deep funk. And _then_ he'd made the mistake of thinking about whose fault it was: Voldemort. And, as if the thought summoned the little shard of Voldemort Harry was carrying, there he was again.

"So you have to wait for the weekend to go see the house again. So what? At least you have a body. Look at me. No wait, you can't. I don't exist, except as a rather brilliant figment of your imagination!"

"And whose fault is that?" returned Harry. "Whose fault is it that the house is empty? Whose fault is it that I don't know any of my relatives except Petunia? Whose fault is it that I have a _serial killer_ in my brain, complaining about not having a body so that he can go kill someone?"

"That was then, this is now," retorted the voice. "Now, you have a body, I don't, and you're _wasting_ it sitting around moping when you could be doing something useful."

"Like killing somebody?"

"I can't think who, but then I don't get to see much. I only come when I'm called; the rest of the time there's nothing. I'm sure there's somebody _you_ can think of to kill. Perhaps a school chum who's a right tosser?"

"No, I can't. Not even Penelope Greengrass."

"Greengrass? Why would you want to kill her?"

"Oh, I don't know. She's a Death Eater? And she tried to kill me?"

Harry felt a spark of concern that wasn't his. "What do you mean? She's not a Death Eater. Her family is neutral. She tried to _kill_ you? When? How?"

"On my birthday! Dudders and I were riding our bikes on the street on the way to visit Colin. She came after us on the way to Colin's. She shot a fireball at us, but missed. We were nearly to Colin's, and we ducked behind the gate before she could catch up with us.

"Then Colin came out and she hit him with a green curse, he called it 'the killing curse,' but it didn't kill him, and he punched her."

"Why didn't you tell me my life... that is, my _non-_life was in danger?"

"I'm telling you now. Quit complaining."

"All right then. You say she missed Colin with the killing curse, and he took her down with his fist? That's alarming. A wizard should not be so easily bested by a muggle."

"No, she didn't miss. I saw the flash of green come out his back."

"You must be mistaken. That curse always kills."

"Anyway, the point is I don't want to kill her. She's a Death Eater, but I just want to be safe from her. I don't want her dead."

"Why do you keep saying she's a Death Eater? I'm telling you, her family were neutral in the war. There were no secret Greengrass Death Eaters. There's no way my followers would have trusted her after I was gone, and without me they couldn't have inducted her anyway."

"Then why did she try to kill me?"

Silence, for quite a while. Harry had been sulking on a bench in the schoolgrounds. One of his classmates, a tall, thin girl named Viveka, came up and tried to talk, but after a few monosyllabic answers, she gave him a bit of a shove on the shoulder to show there were no hard feelings and went off looking for someone more interesting to talk to.

"I think she must know that you have a piece of my soul in you," said the piece of Voldemort's soul. "That's the only thing that could explain it. The neutrals aren't really neutral. They never wanted war. They're hoping to stop the coming war by destroying my horcruxes."

"Horcrux_es?!_ How many poor sods are there out there like me, with little evil wizards riding on their shoulder?"

"Just you. You were an accident, remember. I died making you."

"You didn't make me. My MUM made me!"

"Fair point, but you know what I mean. You were an accident. A horcrux in a human body is no good, because when you die, I die. The real horcruxes I made are magical items, carefully hidden. I wonder if they know there's more than one."

"I could ask."

Harry felt an intense pain, as if the shard had figured out a way to torture him after all. He used the objectivity of his meditation practice to observe the pain and it seemed to dissolve, like a mirage that vanishes into the air as you approach it.

"Don't worry. I'm not going to go talk to Penelope. She's got it in for me. And believe it or not, I don't want _you_ dead either."

"That's remarkable, if true. Please don't tell anyone else either."

"I think Colin already knows. But he's a Buddhist—he won't kill you."

"What's a Buddhist?"

"It's sort of a religion, although they don't believe in God, or souls, or anything like that. They're really into meditation—that's how I got to know him. He helped me to learn legilimancy."

"And that's where you learned occlumency as well? Well done with that! That'll come in handy, having a horcrux in your head and all."

"You have a sense of _humour!_ How does an evil, undead serial-killer wizard have a sense of humour?"

"You know, I don't know. I didn't have one before. I wonder how much of me is me, and how much is you."

"Well, do you remember your life?"

"Yes, I think so."

"Tell me about it?"

"It's a long story. My dad was a muggle. My mum died shortly after I was born, so I grew up in an orphanage. The other kids were horrible. I discovered that I was magical, and turned the tables on them. Once they'd figured out that I could torture them if they tried anything, they backed off, and things were pretty peaceful until that maniac Dumbledore showed up."

Harry snorted. "He is a bit odd, but I don't know if I'd call him a maniac."

"He set my wardrobe on fire!"

"Were you trying to kill him with it?" Harry smirked.

"No!" cried the shard indignantly.

"That was rather strange of him, then, I suppose."

"In any case, I can remember my whole life. I think that means I'm all here. And I remember wanting to cause pain, and wanting to kill. But I don't feel it now. It's as if that part of me has been cut out. When I tortured you just now, it wasn't any fun."

"That's good, although I don't know if you'd be able to do it again anyway. It was oddly transparent."

"Yes. Your occlumency is quite good for one so young."

"Were you afraid of dying?"

"Afraid? No. But why should I have to put up with that when I could live instead? It's all about thinking ahead. Why would I have made a half dozen horcruxes and killed your parents otherwise?"

"You killed my parents because you thought they were going to kill you?"

"Not exactly. It was you I was concerned about."

"So you killed all those people just to get to me?"

"They stood in the way. I needed you dead. So I needed them dead."

"Okay, there's still something that doesn't make sense here. I was a _baby!_ You, fearsome Lord Voldemort, were afraid—"

"_Not_ afraid, boy, just being careful, planning ahead, avoiding pitfalls."

"Whatever. You were 'planning ahead' for the possibility of a baby killing you. Why?"

"One of my Death Eaters, a halfblood named Snape, overheard a prophecy."

"What's a prophecy?"

"A vision of the future. Seers have them. There's a whole hall of prophecies stored in the Ministry of magic. It's quite dramatic: usually the seer goes into a trance and speaks in a different voice. I've never heard one myself, but I reviewed Snape's memory many times, trying to understand it."

"And it said I was going to kill you?"

"Not in so many words, but that was the main thrust of it, yes."

"Did it say when?"

"No. I assumed it would happen after you'd grown up. So I decided to nip the problem in the bud, as it were."

"And it never occurred to you that the reason I was going to kill you was that you were going to kill me? That it wouldn't even be my choice?"

"No. That must have been a rather large surprise. I actually didn't even know you'd killed me until Colin woke me up. Perhaps my shade remembers."

"Your shade?"

"When the body of a person with horcruxes dies, the soul that was in the body persists as a shade, something like a ghost, but a bit more real."

"There are _ghosts? Cool!_"

Harry felt sense of smug, amused superiority coming from the shard, which did not dignify his outburst with a response.

"So then the prophecy is fulfilled."

"I'm not sure. Technically, my body is gone, but I'm still here, so am I actually dead? I can make a new body."

"Can you make new bodies for my parents?"

"It wouldn't help. They didn't have anchors. That's what horcruxes are—anchors. Because of my anchors, I can come back if one of my followers makes me a new body."

"And yet none of them have."

"Yes, that seems to have been the flaw in my plan."

"Perhaps they don't want to be murdered and made into horcruxes."

"Oh, they needn't worry about that. You can make horcruxes with muggles—there's no need to kill a real person."

Harry suddenly had a clear image of what he was talking to, like a deadly spider waiting in its web, looking on the world with pitiless hunger.

"What was that?" cried the shard. "Don't _do_ that! That was awful, whatever it was!"

Harry recovered himself, remembering Vernon and Colin's instructions about _using_ Voldemort's shard. "You've never felt that?"

"No. When I was in the orphanage, I felt weak. That was terrible, although not as bad as whatever that was that you just inflicted on me. Then when I found my magic, I felt powerful, in control. Being in control is better than being weak. I felt angry when my Death Eaters didn't do their job. What _was_ that, and how did you inflict it on me?"

"That was horror. It was a perfectly natural reaction to what you said."

"That was _your_ feeling, then? You weren't trying to punish me?"

"No, it didn't occur to me to try to punish you. Normal people don't go around punishing each other all the time, you know."

"Oh, that's no true at all. They're just usually more timid about it, trying to do it in ways that aren't easily noticed. I'm _honest_. When I want to punish someone, they know it, and they know _I_ did it."

Harry got a wicked gleam in his eye. "Okay, I'm going to try an experiment. Let's see if you feel _this_." Harry thought back to his sixth birthday, when Petunia made good on her promise to bring him to see the ocean. He remembered Dagmar, and the feeling of being cared for, which was so new to him at that time. The feeling of the memory filled him up, and he felt a child's love for Dagmar, although of course he didn't think of it that way.

"Well? Did you feel that?"

The shard was silent for a long time.

"Are you there?"

"What _was_ that? That was _marvelous!_"

"That was love," Harry said, smiling to himself.

"You must teach me how to make people love me."

Harry was pretty sure that the shard was missing the point. On the other hand, could this be useful? "We'll see," he said. Remembering the previous night, he concentrated on his breath for a bit, and the shard seemed to go back to sleep.

Harry got up and went to his next class, feeling oddly less upset than he had all week.

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* * *

"I can't do the love practice," said Petunia. "It's too difficult."

"How so?" asked Colin.

"Whenever I try to bring up love, all sorts of _other_ feelings come up instead. Guilt. Anger. Mostly guilt, though. Regret. I keep thinking about all the things that I did wrong."

"Ah. Remember how, when we meditate, distractions come, and we accept that they have come and let them go?"

"Yes."

"Did you try that with the love practice?"

"No."

"That's understandable. It's a little bit different. What you have to understand about distractions in meditation or in the love practice is that they aren't just random events. They happen for a reason. They happen because it is time for them to happen.

"In meditation," Colin continued, "things come up when the mind has become quiet, or when you try to get it to become quiet. At first, all you can do is to try to bring your attention back to the breath. The reason you do this is to train yourself to become mindful. Becoming mindful allows you to actually _deal_ with what comes up."

"Okay, I remember that."

"The love practice is different. It is two things. First, it's a memory hack. When you remember something, and then move on, you probably think that it's sort of like opening a book and reading it, don't you?"

"Yes, of course. A bit more vivid, perhaps, although not necessarily."

"Okay. That's not how it works at all. Every time you remember something, your brain creates a _new_ memory and replaces the old one. This is why memories fade and change over time."

"Okay, that's a bit alarming," said Petunia. "Does that mean that everything I remember is just a story I've told myself?"

"Not exactly. The system works pretty well, most of the time. But you can hack it, once you understand it. What you have to understand is that emotions are what cause memories to be created. You might remember something fairly uninteresting for a day, but the memories you have of your childhood are all full of emotion."

"Not always good emotions," observed Petunia. "A lot of the memories that came up when I tried to do the practice just made me sad."

"Right. This is the point of the practice. The memory comes up, it's a sad memory, and then you bring up the emotion of love. And then you move on, and the memory is rewritten, but this time the sadness is accompanied by love, so even though the memory is sad, it's also sweet. After a while, it becomes difficult to remember anything that isn't imbued with love."

"Okay, that sounds great, but how do I even do that? When I remember how I treated Lily, I just feel guilty and sad for being so unkind and resentful of her magic."

"Remember what you do when distractions come up in meditation. You accept them, but you don't follow them. You keep your attention on the breath. The principle here is the same. You just keep your attention on the picture you have in your mind of the person you are thinking about, and you wait. And eventually love shows up. You just have to intend for it to show up."

"Okay, but I sat with Lily for a long time, and it was still all just guilt."

"How long?" smiled Colin.

"I don't know, five minutes?"

"When I did this practice, years ago, there was one person I did it with who took two hours."

"Who was that?"

"The man who killed my wife."

"Oh."

"Yes."

"And you were able to generate love for him?"

"Yes."

"Okay, I guess maybe I can do this. I'll try." Petunia was feeling a bit overwhelmed.

Colin gave her a quick hug and a pat on the back. "Good luck!"

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* * *

**_Did The Boy-Who-Lived Really Live?_**

_Rita Skeeter, for the Daily Prophet_

_Every Hallowe'en, the entire wizarding world of Britain celebrates. At Godric's Hollow, tearful well-wishers leave flowers on the shrine to the Potters, and to the child who vanquished their killer. We are told that he survived the killing curse. That a year-old boy somehow killed the most powerful wizard most of us can remember._

_But questions have been raised recently. We were told that Harry Potter lived. That it was he who killed the Dark Lord. But how? This year he would be nine years old. How has a nine-year-old boy remained hidden all this time? How do we know that his story isn't just a cover for something else, something more sinister?_

_This reporter decided to go in search of the elusive Boy Who Lived. If anybody knows where he is, surely his parents' closest friends would. Who were they? Could I track them down and ask them?_

_The first place to look would be Hogwarts, of course. This reporter was not permitted to enter the grounds, because school is in session, but she was able to obtain an interview with an employee of the school whose name has been omitted for his or her protection. According our source, James Potter had several friends, most of whose names will be familiar: Sirius Black, Peter Pettigrew, Marlene McKinnon, Remus Lupin, Penelope Greengrass._

_Pettigrew and McKinnon are no longer among the living. This reporter was able to obtain an interview with Black at Azkaban. It was very difficult to get him to answer. When asked about killing Pettigrew, he insisted that "the rat," as he often refers to Pettigrew, is not dead, despite evidence found at the scene of his murder. When asked about McKinnon, he spoke of what a lovely witch she had been. When this reporter asked point blank whether Black had been responsible for McKinnon's death, the grizzled, half-mad prisoner began to weep openly, but would not admit his guilt._

_When asked of Harry's whereabouts, Black said only, "ask Dumbledore." Chief Warlock Dumbledore refused to comment, citing overwork (see "Too Many Hats for One Wizard?" on p. 3)._

_This reporter spent quite some time trying to track down Mr. Lupin, who she eventually found working as a shop clerk in the muggle world, at an alarmingly large and brightly lit store called "Sainsburys" in the town of Wickham-on-Cam in Cambridgeshire. His response was eerily similar to Blacks: "Dumbledore knows." Nothing would persuade him to reveal more; indeed, he claimed not to know, a surprising story considering that, as the unnamed Hogwarts employee said, he and Potter were "thick as thieves."_

_Greengrass, nee Selwyn, was not part of the inner circle, the so-called "Marauders," but was friendly with Lily Potter at Hogwarts. Her opinion? "My two girls have seen hide nor hair of young Potter. If he lives, he is hiding. I think that the whole story is made up, just another bit of 'Light' propaganda from Dumbledore."_

_Amelia Bones, head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement at the Ministry, refused to comment. "Matters of care for orphans are private to the family that has adopted them, and the DMLE can make no statement without permission of the family." When asked who "the family" was, Madame Bones reiterated her claim._

_If you know anything of the whereabouts of young Mr. Potter, this reporter can be reached care of The Daily Prophet. As of now, we feel quite concerned that some evil has befallen the boy, and we sincerely hope that he is being properly cared for, wherever he may be._


	15. Time to Get Sirius

_Sirius' Journal, Friday, August 15, 1975_

_My name's Sirius Black, and I'm a Gryffindor. James Potter is my best mate. I've been living with the Potters for two weeks now. The Potters are brilliant. I wish I'd run away from home sooner. Now if I could just get the nightmares to go away. _

_Every night after I arrived, I woke up screaming. Nightmares about my mother and what she did to me. After three nights of this, the Potters suggested that perhaps I should see a mind healer down at St. Mungo's. They were really nice about it. No pressure or anything. Just, it might help, they said._

_I'm a Black. At first I resisted going. Blacks don't go to mind healers. But I'm also a Gryffindor, and Blacks are never sorted into Gryffindor. I think at this point I've completely failed at the family tradition of being a dark, tormented, violent tosser. So I decided to give it a go._

_The mind healer is really nice. Her name is Healer Kephalos. Greek, I think. Muggleborn. Another strike against my Black heritage, spilling my secrets to a muggleborn. I think she was a bit nervous talking to someone from a blood purist family, but we got past that pretty quickly when I told her my story._

_It did seem to help, talking to her. She's the one who suggested that I start a journal. Said sometimes it helps to put feelings into words. So here we go. First the story._

_When I was just a wee lad... Actually, let's fast forward to the day I came home on the Hogwarts Express this year for the summer break. "Fast forward" is a muggle term. They have these brilliant things called cassette tapes. You can record music on them and play it back. The Potters have several that run on "batteries", and you can carry one in your backpack and listen with headphones while you are out and about. I brought one of them to St. Mungo's and listened to The Who while I was waiting for Healer Kephalos._

_Wow, Healer Kephalos warned me about this. It's really easy to get sidetracked. Maybe I'll write more about cassette players and The Who later, but I guess I should get to my story. The ride home from Hogwarts was great, mostly. Lily was still pretty upset about the incident with Snivellus. She Hit James with a bat bogey hex when he tried to talk to her about it, and we had to help him clean up after, but James is funny about Lily—even when she hexes him, he thinks it means she likes him. He's bloody mental when it comes to her._

_Sidetracked again. Sorry. So the Express gets into King's Cross, and who's there on the platform to greet us? The Potters, obviously. The Evanses. Snivellus' Mum didn't show. That had to hurt. He went home with the Evanses. I need to be more decent to Snivellus next year. He's really got a hard lot at home. Damn. Honestly, we've got a lot in common, I guess, even if he is a Snake._

_Walburga was waiting. I thought not for me—she has to show up for Regulus, after all. But it turns out that I was the one she was there for, for a change, and Regulus was the side dish. She _smiled_ at me. Can you believe it? Well, if you're digging this up in the family vault a thousand years from now, I suppose you wouldn't know. Walburga's my mother. Me and Regulus. She _never_ smiles at me. It was terrifying, and rightly so, as it turns out. "This summer you'll finally make the family proud," she said as she grabbed us and apparated out of there._

_When we arrived home, Walburga sent us both upstairs with our trunks, and demanded that we be "clean and in formal attire" in time for dinner. That's never a good sign, because she doesn't have any friends who we'd want to see, but it's normal enough that we didn't think much of it. When we got upstairs, Regulus and I shared a bit of a freak out about The Smile. Regulus is used to The Smile, because he's the Golden Boy, after all, but he didn't know what to make of Walburga smiling at me any more than I did, and neither of us thought it was good news._

_I wasn't ready to to unpack, so I spent the hour before supper faffing around in my bedroom. Kreacher had obviously been at my posters—I used to put up muggle posters of motorcycles and such to annoy Walburga. I'd used a permanent sticking charm to keep them up, but it looked like Kreacher had figured out a way to cover them with wallpaper, so I came up with a charm that would _prevent_ things sticking to them._

_Finally it was time for supper, and so Regulus and I trundled down the stairs, wondering who the dinner guest would be. Before he arrived, Walburga took me aside and, to my shock, cast _Imperio_! This was not the first time she'd done it, but it had been several years since the last incident. She did it mostly to make me behave. Under the curse, you feel like everything is great. No problems, no worries. It's actually kind of nice: Walburga gets what she wants, and I can just surrender to it. Not so nice after, of course._

_The guest turned out to be a tall, elegantly dressed man, with close-cropped hair and what would have been a handsome face, if not for his eyes. His eyes were red, with vertical pupils. Robes cover up a multitude of sins, but he seemed fit and powerful. Not someone to be trifled with._

_"__My Lord," said my mother, an unfamiliar tone of respect in her voice, "these are Sirius and Regulus, my two sons."_

_Regulus and I bowed to him. It seemed like exactly the right thing to do; such was the power of the curse. "It is a pleasure to meet two such well-bred young gentlemen!" he said. "Shall we have dinner?" _

_"__My Lord" was of course the new self-professed "Dark Lord" who has been stirring things up amongst the dark-leaning students at Hogwarts, and amongst the Dark-leaning families of Britain as well. Regulus is still too young to be recruited directly, but several of my classmates have already been recruited, and one, a Slytherin named Malfoy, has already taken the Dark Mark. At least, so it is rumored. _

_It had been the farthest thing in my mind, however, when I boarded the Hogwarts Express that morning, that I would have the misfortune to meet this maniac. Trust Walburga to fuck things up. Under the influence of the curse, it all seemed fine, and Regulus and I made blood purist small talk with the murderous cretin as if everything were perfectly normal._

_After dinner, the Dark Lord took me aside and said "It is my understanding from Walburga that you wish to pledge your allegiance to me."_

_"__Yes, my lord," the curse spoke for me. This didn't seem right. I couldn't quite figure out why—he seemed like such a well-mannered gentleman—but inside somewhere a little part of me was screaming in protest._

_"__Excellent. Let us begin, then. This will sting a little, so you may take a moment to prepare yourself," he said, taking out his wand with a look of sadistic anticipation_

_The little part of me grew louder as the realization came to my mind that this well-mannered gentleman was about to place upon me the same Dark Mark that Lucius wears. As he began the incantation, I finally managed to break free of Walburga's curse; drawing my wand, I cast "Protego" as the Dark Lord completed his much longer incantation._

_"__What is this?" he cried angrily. He turned to Walburga. "I want _willing_ followers, Walburga! What have you done?" As he shrieked at her, he pointed his wand as well, and cast "Crucio." My mother shrieked in agony, her eyes glaring accusingly at me._

_I realize now that I feel deep shame for what I did then, even though I probably would have died had I not done it. I spun on my heel and apparated away to the first place I could think of: Potter Manor. When I arrived, I called Kreacher, who came to me with his usual sullen glare. "Bring my trunk," I commanded, and Kreacher did._

_Why do I feel shame for leaving my mother to Lord Voldemort's curse? She was going to curse my entire life with his poison. Had she succeeded in her plan for me, I would be looking at the Dark Mark on my left hand. The Dark Lord is much more powerful than me—I could not have hoped to defend her, and had I done so, she would have cursed me for it herself. And yet. Her eyes. Why did she do this to me?_

_When the Potters heard my story, they practically dragged me in to the house. Tiffen took my trunk upstairs to my usual room, and then handed me a cup of hot chocolate to drink. James sat with me and pledged his support. Charlus and Dorea both promised me that I could stay all summer, and all next summer as well. They welcomed me into their family. I feel like a snake in the grass. Am I bringing the Black madness to their home? What if You-Know-Who comes after me? He hasn't so far, but what if?_

_I wish I could have James' unquestioning confidence in his place here. I am sure that soon they will come to their senses and kick me out. Why are they being so kind to me?_

_Maybe I will ask Healer Kephalos what she thinks. She was right about this. Writing this down helped. But I need to figure out what to do when the Potters kick me out._

The journal went on day after day for several months, and the next one started up where this one left off. It appeared that the Potters had never come to their senses, and that they'd continued to welcome Sirius as if he were James' brother.

Harry didn't have time to read the rest of the entries—he was expected back home to prepare dinner. He'd promised Petunia that he'd help her to prepare one of the family's recent favorites—a mushroom and chèvre quiche as the centrepiece, delicate fingerling potatoes and green beans steamed separately and then drizzled together in butter, a salad of diced tomatoes, cucumbers, radish and carrot, and then treacle tart for dessert. Technically the treacle tart was _his_ favorite, but the family seemed to enjoy it. So he hugged Tiffen goodbye and dashed for the fireplace.

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* * *

Dinner was a success, and after the cleanup the Dursleys had scattered to their various places. Petunia was off to meet with Colin for more of her training on how to release the bonds of self, whatever that meant. Dudley wanted to watch Dr. Who. Vernon went off to the shop to work on a bit of a side project he'd taken on, getting the feel for some of the new tools that Grunnings was making.

Harry briefly debated going back to the Pottery, but decided that it was too late. Plus, he had a letter to write. In his neatest handwriting, he began,

_Dear Rita Skeeter,_

_Thank you for your kind concern about me. It is wonderful to know that after all this time, the wizarding world has taken an interest in what happened to me. Things were a bit difficult after my parents were murdered, as I'm sure you can imagine, but took a turn for the better on my sixth birthday. Now I have a loving family, several good friends, and a community of adults who care about me._

_Knowing how difficult the lives of some orphans and even non-orphan children are, I feel truly lucky to have what I now have._

_As to whether I survived the killing curse, and if so how, I will admit that I didn't even know what the killing curse was until fairly recently. So it is quite possible that the whole story is nonsense. If it is not, there is nothing special about me—only my parents. I do wish that I could have kept them, but as I was only fifteen months old at the time, my recollection is spotty. Perhaps you should ask this Dark Lord you mentioned. Since he was there, I'm sure he can tell you._

_In any case, if you know anything about my parents, I would love to hear from you. Were you in school with them?_

_Sincerely yours,_

_Harry James Potter_

Harry tied the letter to Dagmar's leg and instructed her to deliver it in the morning, and to wait for a reply.

Hedwig pecked at Harry's hand. "No no, Hedwig," Harry admonished. "I have another task for you. Just wait a moment."

With that, Harry began another letter.

_Dear Sirius Black,_ he wrote...

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* * *

When Hedwig had flown off with the second letter, Harry yawned, stretched, and started in on his homework. Perhaps tomorrow he would have time to read more of the journal. But there was still something he could do to satisfy his curiosity.

"Oh Shard?" he thought.

"What is it?" came the reply.

"Do you remember trying to mark a new Death Eater named Sirius Black?"

A pause. Finally, "yes, right. That idiot woman, Walburga. Horrible woman. Can you believe she imperiused her own son to get him to pledge to me?"

"Yes, that's what he said in his journal. What happened to her after that?"

"I tortured her for a bit. And extracted a promise out of her never to try it again. I was hoping that her family would contribute to my war chest, so I couldn't afford to kill her."

"That's a relief, I think."

"You'd be surprised. She was really a piece of work. Blood purists are a funny lot to begin with, but she was exceptional. The only blood purist I've met who was more deranged was her niece, Bellatrix."

"What's a blood purist?"

"In Magical Britain, there is an odd but common belief that magic runs in the blood, and only comes from pureblood families. Anyone who's not a pureblood but is magical is supposed to be the bastard child of a pureblood, or else stole the magic. Of course it's ridiculous, but it's widely believed."

"How did a bunch of these 'blood purists' come to be following an orphan?"

"I told them I was a pureblood. They believed me without questioning. Heir of Slytherin, I called myself."

"Who is Slytherin?"

"One of the founders of the school, Hogwarts. I am his heir, and he's a pureblood. I was able to prove it, and my story of being an orphan actually helped: nobody knew who my father was, and everyone just assumed he was a pureblood like my mother."

"Did you wind up going after Sirius?"

"No. I prefer biddable followers, not rebels. We did clash once or twice afterwards, of course, since he was on the wrong side."

"What happened to him, then? He said in his journal that he's my father's best mate, but I've never met him. Did your followers kill him?"

"I don't know. He was still alive when I killed your parents."

"How odd. Well, if he is still alive, perhaps Hedwig will find him."

"Hedwig?"

"My owl."

"Ah. If you gave your owl a letter for him, and he—"

"_She_"

"My apologies. If you gave your owl a letter for him, and _she_ took it and flew off with it, then he's alive. Otherwise she would not have known where to go, and would simply have refused to carry it."

"I guess that's good."

"Indeed."


	16. The Long and Winding Road

_Crash! Slam! Thunk!_ The guard dropped his awful breakfast, in a dog's bowl, on the floor. The dog's bowl was standard practice, nothing to do with his Animagus form. Dementors are not very dexterous, so the bowl has to be something they can carry. Of course, the feeding is two-way: the Dementor brings the bowl, takes the previous day's bowl, and eats any happy thoughts that may through some miracle have arisen in the mind of the prisoner. A dark and painful symbiosis. Sirius often wondered whether the experience was any better for the Dementors; he suspected not.

When the guard had gone, Sirius followed his standard routine: transform, eat, huddle under the door. The trick to being a dog in a prison cell that's supposed to contain a human is that if you don't appear as a human, the Dementors will think you're dead, and then there won't be any food. You have to be human long enough for them to drop the food off. But in human form, their presence is overwhelming.

Transforming back into a dog was always a sweet relief. Sirius could sink into a doggish state of mind, and dogs, while they can feel guilt and sorrow, tend not to dwell on it. The food was nasty, but the dog's sharp senses were fascinated by all the different unpleasant odors. To the dog, these were more like additional forms of bitterness or umami than anything negative. The distraction of the sensory experience each day helped to clear away the negative thoughts.

The usual plan for the day would be to go to sleep for as long as possible, and then get up and smell the breeze. The breeze wasn't all that interesting, but it was really the only thing that changed in the cell, other than the angle of the sun. And since the weather at Azkaban was usually cloudy, it was a rare day when Sirius could enjoy the brilliant light casting tiny shadows across the imperfections in the cell wall and floor.

On this particular morning, things didn't go quite the usual way. When Sirius was done eating, he curled up against the door and went to sleep. But some time later he was awakened by a sharp nip on his foreleg.

He opened one eye and looked. An owl. A snowy owl, with a letter. How had she got in? Through the window, of course, the one too high up to see, letting in just enough light for Sirius to appreciate the stunning squalor of his prison cell, and the lovely bone-chilling breezes off of the North Sea. But how had she got past the wards? Must be a rather special owl, Sirius thought.

The owl took the letter off of her leg using her beak, as if she understood that Sirius couldn't transform into a human without attracting Dementors. Really quite a remarkable bird. Unfortunately, neither bird nor dog possessed opposable thumbs, which made unrolling the scroll quite difficult. Ultimately the owl was able to unroll it enough that Sirius could plant his paws at the bottom. She was then able to finish unrolling it using her beak and one claw, hopping on the other. When it was flat she stood on the top. This arrangement allowed Sirius to read:

_Dear Sirius Black,_ the letter started.

_My name is Harry Dursley. I think you knew my parents. I'm writing to you because I've been reading your journals from when you were living with my Dad at the Pottery. I hope you don't mind too much, but I was curious—I don't know much about my parents, because as you may know, they died when I was still a baby._

_Given that I haven't seen you, I think something must have happened. Perhaps you had a falling out, and you stopped being friends. Whatever it was, I'm sorry for it. I hope it wasn't to do with me._

_If you wouldn't mind terribly, could you perhaps reply to this and tell me what happened? If it's too personal, I'll understand of course, but still I'd like to know more people who knew my parents. My step-parents are quite nice, but I understand that they didn't get on well with my parents when they were alive, and so getting them to talk about them doesn't work very well. They just sort of get sad and look guilty, and the answers I get aren't detailed._

_Even if you don't want to talk about them, I'd still like to meet you, if that's possible. You were their friend, and I'm sure that you can tell me a lot about what life was like when you knew them._

_My owl, Hedwig, will wait for your reply. I don't think that you can send owls to me directly, but if you aren't able to reply immediately and want to send a reply later, you can send a letter to me care of the Lovegoods at the Rookery, and I will get it soon thereafter._

_With best wishes,_

_Harry Dursley_

Had he been in his human form, with his human brain, Sirius was sure the letter would have completely unmanned him. As it was, the dog was sad, but able to focus on the present situation, rather than being swept away by the sorrows of the past.

Of course he knew that the Potters had perished. How could he not, when it was his own stupid fault? As Harry's godfather, he'd expected to raise Harry, but that had all gone wrong after the fiasco with the traitor, Pettigrew. And so now Harry was living with the Dursleys? Madness! Petunia had _hated_ James. Imagine how she would react to a tiny little James. And yet Harry seemed to think they were okay. Perhaps the responsibility of a young orphan had given the Dursleys a much-needed reality check.

Okay. And Harry didn't know the history. Didn't know that Sirius was thought to have betrayed his parents, that he was in Azkaban. Sirius couldn't imagine a nine-year-old boy having the temerity to write to a prisoner in Azkaban if he knew about it. Although... James' son, perhaps. Lily's son? Okay, definitely Lily's son would do it. So maybe he _did_ know.

One of the qualities of being a dog is that the sense of loyalty to one's pack is inescapable. Sirius had no choice. He'd assumed that Harry was being taken care of properly. He'd assumed that he would not be welcome. Azkaban's omnipresent miasma of dread had done its work.

Seven years he had waited on this dismal rock. No more. He would die tonight, kissed by a dementor or drowned in the cold of the North Sea. Or he would escape. There was no third alternative.

These thoughts did not worry the dog. To die in service of pack was a good death. The boy was his pack. The boy needed him. The dog's courage would not fail him again. He would come.

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* * *

At dinner time, Sirius was in his human form again, but when the door opened, he was waiting. He quickly transformed into his Animagus form and slipped by the guard, out into the corridor. The guard seemed confused, and rummaged around in the cell for a bit looking for a corpse. Sirius waited patiently at the cell block gate. Eventually the Dementor completed its rounds, delivering dinners to each prisoner.

Sirius had not been idle. The Dementor had left a cart with dinners for each prisoner in the center of the cell block. Sirius took one and ate it quickly, while the Dementor did his work. This was the last food he'd get until he reached shore. Perhaps his last meal. Not exactly gourmet food, but he would need it to survive the cold North Sea waters.

When he was done, he put the bowl back on the cart, just in time for the Dementor to take it. The Dementor could not see, and did not realize it was empty. The bowl went to Bellatrix Lestrange. "Where did you come from, you mangy cur?" she shrieked. Sirius felt a brief and unfamiliar surge of delight, and had to restrain himself from yelping with laughter.

When the guard opened the cell block door, Sirius slipped past it again, out into the main courtyard. There were no more gates. Just bare rock, and a path down the cliff. The day's clouds had cleared, and a sliver of a waxing crescent moon was visible in the sky, casting just enough light that the dog's eyes could see the path. A bitter wind blew up the defile, smelling of sea and decay. Glad of his thick dog's coat, Sirius crept down the path.

At the bottom of the path, a dock. Tied to the dock, a boat. Sirius considered stealing it, but it seemed like an obvious temptation, perhaps a trap. Better not to risk it. He could see flashes of what looked like a pair of lights across the horizon. Steeling himself, he ran down the dock and leapt into the water.

COLD! So COLD. The only thing he could do to avoid surrender was to swim, so swim he did. It was difficult to keep the lights in his sight from his low perspective on the water, but he was able to glimpse them often enough to stay on course. Another light would shine occasionally to the left of the main two, but he stuck with them.

After some time, he began to tire. The lights seemed no closer. The boy, he had to get to the boy, but... It seemed hopeless. He'd made no progress at all. He was going to fail. The feeling gave him access to his last strength, and he paddled some more.

But it was no use. The energy was gone. Too many years of eating poor rations and getting no exercise to speak of had rendered him incapable of the feat he was attempting, if he'd ever been capable of it. His dog-paddling slowed, and then stopped. Too tired to continue.

Perhaps a rest, and then more paddling. He was too tired to realize that any rest he took would be his last, and in any case oblivion seemed welcome. He pictured the boy in his mind, now nine years old, perhaps looking like James or Lily, and decided that he would rest with that image in his mind. Such dear friends they had been. How he missed them.

His eyes drifted closed, tears mixing with the salt water, and he began to sink. He felt a nudge at his feet. Shark? Too tired to care, he waited for his doom. To his surprise, he felt himself lifted a bit out of the water, splayed across the back of the shark, or whatever it was. Without any effort, he was being propelled toward the lights rather rapidly, supported by the lithe body of his savior, which appeared to his sight as a glistening grey in the faint light. He heard the hooting of an owl above him. Could the owl have arranged this?

Surrendering to his fate, whatever it held, he watched as the lights grew closer. The cold was coming back, and he began to shiver. The dolphin, for that was what it must be, was well-insulated, and their closeness provided no warmth.

The lights drew apart and resolved into lighthouses. The dolphin hove off to the right of the lights, toward what looked like a beach gleaming dimly in the light of the moon. Nearly at the beach, the dolphin submerged, leaving Sirius floating again. The dog barked his thanks, and the dolphin nudged him toward the beach before swimming off toward the open sea.

Sirius paddled toward the beach in a desperate rush, burning through what strength he'd regained from the rest. Finally, he felt sand under his paws, and crawled up out of the water. He attempted to stand, but his legs were burning and weak, and he was so cold. His attempt to stand got him out of the surf, and then he just fell over.

His doggy coat and the receding tide saved him. He drifted to sleep for a bit, but then woke, and was able to struggle to his feet, his thighs burning with exhaustion. Giving his coat a mighty shake, he stumbled unsteadily toward a sea wall above which rose a large, pale, squat building and what seemed like it might be a stair.

The stair was at the top of a sort of concrete ramp. The dog managed it somehow. Sirius noticed with grim amusement a "no dogs allowed sign," once he got to the top of the stair. "Too late!" he thought, enjoying the irony. The building seemed to be some sort of tourist cafe. He found a sign, _The Fisherman's Wife Whitby_. Whitby. Okay. Northern England, Yorkshire. "_Bollocks!" _The Pottery would be about three hundred miles south.

Sirius did not feel well enough to apparate. The last thing he needed was to be a fugitive on the run and get splinched. No money, and no way to get any, so no trains. Covered in filth from the prison, no decent clothes. "_Garbage it is,_" he decided. "_Or begging, begging could work, but I need to get clean_." He sniffed around a bit. Not too bad, actually. The fast ride through the waters on the back of a dolphin had helped.

Just then, the owl landed. She was still carrying the letter! She hooted meaningfully at Sirius, and unrolled the parchment again. Sirius stamped down on it with his paw, leaving a paw-like pattern of sandy wet ink on the surface. The owl seemed satisfied. Sirius transformed into his human form. Sometimes he felt as if he was a dog with the ability to become human, rather than a wizard with the ability to become a dog. He rolled the parchment back up and tied it to the owl's leg. The owl nipped him gently on the finger and took off flying to the south. Sirius watched her go, white wings flashing in the moonlight, until his eyes could no longer find her, and then became Dog once more.

Whitby was quite picturesque by moonlight. The Abbey, up on a headland to the south, loomed over the town. The dog walked down to a bridge, crossed it, and walked up toward the great old ruin. Hopping a few gates, he found a comfortable hollow in the lee of one of the intact stone walls toward the remains of the nave. Out of the wind, curled up in as small a ball as he could manage, his coat did its work and the cold slowly receded. Not exactly warm, but at least not desperately cold, the dog went to sleep.

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* * *

"Oi! You there! Shoo!" came a voice. Sirius woke up slowly, confused. Dementors don't talk. Oh, right. Whitby. A boot came at him, and the dog jumped up, narrowly missing being kicked. He looked at the Muggle and growled, then turned away and walked off nonchalantly. The Muggle did not follow.

On the path down toward the river, he encountered a family having a bit of breakfast. A young girl, perhaps seven, lit up when she saw him, and gave him a bit of her breakfast sausage. He gulped it down and looked up at her adoringly, tail wagging, eyes begging for more. She obliged, but then her mother noticed.

"Tabitha! Get away from that dog. It's not safe—he could bite your hand right off, a big brute like that." Sirius looked at her reproachfully and let out a whine. The woman glared at him. "Don't you look at me like that. I know your kind," she said, but the ghost of a smile softened her tone. "Oh very well, you do look hungry. Here, take this, I'm done with it anyway," she said, placing her plate on the ground nearby (but, Sirius noticed, strategically far from her daughter).

Letting out a quiet whuff of gratitude, Sirius quickly polished off the remaining egg, sausage and potato and licked the plate clean. Then, not wanting to wear out his welcome, he wandered off down the path, brushing up against the nice woman as he went by her. "Don't you shed on me!" she admonished, but when he turned back to look the smile was no longer a mere ghost. Sirius returned it with his own doggy smile, tongue dangling rakishly to the side. Tail wagging, the dog walked off south.

* * *

It quickly became clear that his plan was not going to work. He managed to make his way to a road that seemed to go straight south, the A169, but after an hour of walking, a police car stopped and the policeman got out and came after him. He escaped over a hedge, but it was a near thing. After that, he tried to parallel the road. That worked better, but it was slow going, and tiring, and despite being in farm country, there was no obvious food to be had. At one point someone came out of a large building with a firearm and shot at him. He escaped without harm, but realized he needed to do something different.

He found a lorry with an open back, empty, stopped at a petrol station. No-one seemed to be around. He quickly hopped on board and hunkered down where he'd be least likely to be spotted. The driver got in without seeing him. Success! The truck went south for a while, but then turned west. Failure! Sirius was forced to ride in the wrong direction for a long time before the truck was forced to stop at a rail crossing, and he could hope out the back.

The rail line went south, so Sirius decided to try his luck following it for a bit. Occasionally a train would come by. The first one was quite terrifying—it was moving faster than a Seeker on a broom, it seemed, and _massive_. And _silent_. He was almost hit, but fortunately was looking in the right direction when the train came bombing down the tracks, and was able to leap aside at the last moment, the image of the conductor's large, shocked eyes feeling like it could have been his last sight if he'd been just a tiny bit slower.

Muggles. The irony of his situation was not lost on him: he'd been caught up in the machinations of a supposed Dark Lord, of whom these Muggles had never heard and never would hear, who would be squashed in an instant were he foolish enough to stand in front of one of these Muggle trains, no matter how strong a protection he cast. The power of the Dark Lord was nothing next to these Muggles, despite their lack of magic.

Eventually the dog came to a siding where a freight train was stopped, and he was able to climb on board without being seen. He curled up in a corner and went to sleep again. Some time later he was awoken by the jolt of the train starting up, and when he investigated, he found that the train was indeed heading to the south.

He went back to sleep, and was awakened by a heavy jolt and the smell of pollution. London!

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* * *

The train had stopped at a huge freight yard. It was dark. A bit of investigation revealed to Sirius that he was in Stratford. The industrial one, not the one on the Avon river. London gave him mixed feelings. On the one hand, he'd grown up here, and the smell and the sound of the city was in his blood. On the other hand, this was where he'd been abused at the hands of his mother. Bella had gone from being dark and interesting to being the Dark Lord's toy here, gaslit and tormented into madness by that psychopath.

"_But Bella is in Azkaban,_" he reminded himself. "_And mother, well, she is old, her hearing is shot, and her aim is not very good._" He realized that his best bet might be to see if he could sneak into the house and make off with something valuable that he could convert into currency. The journey to Grimmauld Place would be difficult, but it was night, and late, so perhaps he could manage.

Fortunately the route went mostly through parkland. Sirius used the moon to navigate—it had waxed a bit more since the previous night. He eventually came to a canal which was going sort of in the right direction, and followed the tow path alongside the canal for a long time. Finally he came to a point where the canal submerged into a tunnel.

As a child, he had explored this place—he remembered being fascinated by this great tunnel. The tunnel was perfectly straight, and during the day you could see light through it. But it was for a _canal_. And such a high ceiling. As a child, the whole thing seemed marvelously whimsical, although later he realized that it actually had a perfectly sensible, if obsolete, purpose.

Having realized where exactly he was, he no longer needed the moon to navigate, which was fortunate: dawn was beginning to break. He continued the last few blocks to Grimmauld Place, walked up to the front stoop, and transformed back. "Kreacher?" he whispered.

The door opened silently, and an ancient elf peered out. "Master?" he said, in a soft, disbelieving voice. "Master Sirius? You is come home?"

Sirius had never much liked the elf, but this was a bit strange. "Kreacher, what is happening? Where is Walburga?"

"Oh Master," said Kreacher, his voice breaking. "Mistress Walburga and Master Orion are on the wall, like Kreacher's ancestors."

Sirius remembered the grim display of Kreacher's ancestors' heads, mounted on plates and hung on the wall up the back stair. "You cut off their heads?" he asked, unsure what Kreacher meant.

"NO! Kreacher would never do such a thing! Master is cruel to say it!" Kreacher shrieked. "Kreacher is used to Master being cruel."

Kreacher paused for a moment, and then, anger spent, he continued sadly. "No, old Master and Mistress have died, and all Kreacher has of them are their portraits. Master Regulus is lost. Kreacher is very, very sad to say it, but Master Sirius is the only remaining Black, and so Kreacher must serve him."

Sirius wasn't sure whether to be happy or sad, so he settled on guilt. The last time he had seen Walburga, he had left her under a torturer's wand, after all. He had heard that his father had died toward the end of the war, so that wasn't really news, although he'd forgotten.

"Very well, Kreacher. Is the house ready?"

"No. Kreacher is being busy."

"Please prepare my room," Sirius said, exhaustion suddenly overtaking him.

"Kreacher will obey Master," said Kreacher, and disappeared with a _krak_.


	17. Aunt Amelia?

tw: panic attack (coming right up). adult indifference. death of a child (nobody we know, but still).

* * *

Vernon loomed over Harry, his face red, his expression fierce, a copy of the Daily Prophet in his hand. "YOU WROTE TO RITA SKEETER?!" Vernon's face was red. "HARRY! YOU CAN'T! IT'S NOT SAFE! WHAT IF PENELOPE GREENGRASS USES THIS TO FIND US?!"

"I didn't think it would ..." Harry started, but Vernon cut him off.

"THAT'S RIGHT! YOU DIDN'T THINK!"

"No, I mean, I thought..."

"THAT WOMAN CAME AFTER YOU WITH THE KILLING CURSE! IT'S ALL STARTING AGAIN!"

Harry felt disgusted with himself. How could have have been so stupid? Couldn't he just go back and not send the letter? The years of being an unwanted servant in the Dursley house came back to him full force. How could have have risked that? The Dursleys had been right. He really was just a useless freak.

His mind racing, Harry realized that his brief time of happiness was over. Perhaps the Dursleys would finally send him away to an orphanage, as they'd used to threaten. His heart pounding, his breath coming in gasps, Harry started to black out. He had to get away. He heard Petunia yelling in the distance, but couldn't really understand what she was saying.

"VERNON! STOP! Look at Harry!"

Arms around him, suffocating him! He struggled, trying to escape! Pulling away, he ran for his refuge, flung open the door, and dived in, slamming it behind him. The little thin mattress was still there. He curled up into a ball and wept, not listening to the now quiet voices on the other side of the door. Petunia sounded upset, but he couldn't make out what she was saying. She must hate him. Everything was ruined. Maybe they'd let him move back into the cupboard and not send him away. He tried to quiet his sobbing so they would forget he was here.

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* * *

"Harry. It's Colin. Can we talk?"

"GO AWAY!" How could he face Colin after this?

There was silence for a long while. Harry just lay there in misery, wishing his magic could somehow turn back time.

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* * *

"Harry, would you like some dinner? It's poached salmon!" Dudley said in a worried tone of voice.

"NOT HUNGRY!"

He didn't know why he was yelling—he wasn't angry at Dudley. He guessed he was angry at himself. It almost felt as if Dudley's worried tone was an accusation from which he had to defend himself.

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* * *

The Shard woke to a feeling of such intense self-hatred and doom that it felt like he was back at the orphanage. What had happened? "Harry?"

SILENCE

This had only ever happened the first time the Shard had woken up. But there was no Colin here. In fact, where was he? Where was Harry? It was dark. Harry seemed to be lying on some kind of thin mattress, and there was a musty smell in the air.

He tried to move, but nothing happened. It appeared that Harry was unconscious, so the Shard tried to explore Harry's memory. The Dursleys had found out about Harry's little letter-writing campaign. And Vernon's reaction had triggered a panic attack. The Shard _hated_ panic attacks. That feeling of weakness, of everything being out of control. He had worked very hard to get to the point where they no longer happened to him, and now they were happening to Harry.

The Shard looked for feelings of glee, for that would have been his natural reaction to another person's suffering, but he came up empty. He felt something else. It was a strange feeling. He wanted Harry to feel better. Odd.

The Shard had been noticing for some time that his feelings didn't seem to run in familiar channels anymore. He felt an odd sort of shame for Harry's situation, for example. When he'd been killing the Potters, all he'd felt was anticipation and disgust. First at James Potter's weakness, running at him (you couldn't really dignify what he did with the word "attack") without even a wand. And then at Lily, refusing to accept the inevitable and standing defenseless between his wand and her ill-fated child, refusing to yield when he offered to spare her.

At the time it has just been bothersome, because he knew it would cost him Severus' good will, perhaps even his obedience. But now he looked on that decision and wished he'd chosen differently. He felt sadness.

He was familiar with sadness—it was something he'd felt in the orphanage, before he'd come into his power, when he was tormented and abused by the wolves. But to feel sadness _for_ someone. That was completely alien, something he had never done before.

Really, to have any feeling about someone else's feelings other than delight at their torment or anger and disgust at their weakness would have been impossible before. What had changed? Was there something wrong with his mind, now that he was in this new body? Or was there something wrong with his old body, that only let him feel certain emotions? What was different? The Shard was fascinated.

And then what to do about it? It seemed he was stuck in this body. Did he want to return to the old way of feeling, of being? No. Even feeling sadness for Harry's situation was somehow sweet. Another word he wouldn't even have known the meaning of before. Oh, he knew that chocolate frogs were "sweet," but the taste had held no interest for him.

It was as if his whole life as Tom Riddle and as Lord Voldemort had been lived in black and white, like those old muggle movies. Occasional flashes of lightning and thunder, perhaps some screaming, but completely one-dimensional. Now… He shuffled through Harry's memories some more, noting how he felt when he played with his friends. "Joy? Is this what "joy" feels like," he wondered.

No, even trapped in Harry's body, a mere spectator, was preferable to going back to that dark, colorless absence of any positive emotion that he'd endured his whole life until the moment his joyless body had been destroyed. He could not go back to pretending to be normal, to be happy, as he had at Hogwarts. Back to torturing and killing, rendering into monochromes of pain and misery what had been, before he arrived, lives of color and joy.

But perhaps there could be more. He had intended to make a new body. Could he make one that experienced these new emotions? Could he enlist Harry's help? So strange, that Harry seemed unable to hate him for all the misery he had caused.

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* * *

Harry woke up early in the morning, still sheltered in his cupboard, still steeped in shame and dread, still wishing to somehow undo his mistake, so that he would not have to be alone again. "All right, Harry?" came the Shard's voice in his mind.

"NO!"

"What is the matter, then?"

"I ruined EVERYTHING! They are going to SEND ME AWAY!"

"Really? After all this time?"

"I KNEW it was too good to be true. I'm a freak. They know I'm a freak. Their bloody parents died because of me and my kind. Now I've reminded them that it's not safe to have me here. They are utterly mad to allow me to be here. I am nothing but a danger to them. I'm not their son. They hated my parents. Oh, they're nice about it now, but I can tell from the way they won't talk about them."

"Harry, I am a bit of an expert on the topic of adults who don't care. Do you mind if I share some of my experience with you?"

"Why would you do that?"

"Our fates are interlocked. And being here, in your mind, sharing your soul... It has been instructive. It is only fair that I return the favour."

"If you insist," Harry said in a doubtful tone.

"Harry, I want to be clear that I am not telling you any of this to excuse the harm I have visited upon you. It made sense to me at the time, yet I cannot justify it now. It doesn't make sense to me anymore. I can no longer _not_ feel your pain. I feel how worried and upset you are. I feel your sadness, and how alone and unprotected you feel. These feelings are very familiar to me, but with important differences."

"I do not remember my mother. She died giving birth to me. My first victim, you might say. I don't have even the ghost of a memory of my mother's love, because she abandoned me in my first conscious moment. The matron at the orphanage took care of me, but I was a chore for her, not an object of love. She was not unkind, but neither was she kind. This uncaring efficiency is my first memory of being looked after. Once I was old enough to toddle around on my own, she abandoned me without a backward glance, and I was cast amongst the wolves."

"The wolves?"

"The older children. The orphanage was not a workhouse. I learned later that if I'd been born a century earlier, the little wolves wouldn't have had time to torment me, because we all would have been hard at work earning our keep. Perhaps that would have been preferable. We were left to our own devices outside of schooling. We were fed minimally, and supervised minimally. I had to eat what I could before the other children finished their food, because whatever I didn't finish before them, they would immediately steal from me.

"This was my life when I was your age. Never a kind face, never a kind smile. I didn't even understand the _concept_ of an adult who would look out for me. I certainly never met one.

"When I was old enough, the adults saw me as a resource. The orphanage was no work house, to be sure, but the more downtrodden children were used for labor, because we preferred cleaning, chopping, taking out the chamber pots, _anything_ to being alone with the wolves. I think the adults allowed the wolves free rein because they were a tool for keeping us in line.

"This feeling that you shared with me a few days ago, it's a feeling that I had never before felt. Love. When I was a child, nobody loved me. If I had died one day, as one of my peers did, they would simply have carted me off to the potter's field and left me there to rot, again without a thought or a backward glance. They wouldn't even have done it themselves. They would have had one of the other downtrodden children do the work."

"Did they make you do it?" Harry asked.

"Yes. I had to dig his grave. I had to wrap him in a shroud, and load him into the cart to bring to the potter's field. It was I who dig his grave, who slid him into it, who filled it once again with dirt. Once the priest had mouthed some idiotic words, I was left there by myself, to make my own way back with the shovel when the work was done."

The Shard was quiet for a bit. Then, "I know that your situation here with the Dursleys feels precarious," the Shard continued. (Harry wasn't sure what precarious meant, but he assumed it meant what he was feeling.) "But as an adult, I have witnessed the behavior of other adults toward their children, your parents included. I could see the pattern, even though I did not understand it.

"I know that your situation here with the Dursleys feels precarious," the Shard continued. (Harry wasn't sure what precarious meant, but he assumed it meant what he was feeling.) "But as an adult, I have witnessed the behavior of other adults toward their children, your parents included. I could see the pattern, even though I did not understand it.

"You are worried that the Dursleys will cast you out amongst the wolves. They will not. They have grown to care for you. I can see it in how they look at you. It's the same look I saw in your father's eyes when he stood unarmed in front of me, blocking my path."

The Shard felt sadness and loneliness well up in Harry's heart. So strange, to want to comfort this boy, not to enjoy his suffering.

After a bit, Harry asked "then why did Vernon yell at me like that? His face got all red, like it used to. I would have to spend days in the cupboard when his face got red like that."

"He yelled at you because he is frightened for you. You understand that adults have a lot more experience in the world. As a child, in some sense you may be cleverer than they, because the weight of the world slows adults down. But they have experience.

"People like Rita Skeeter, to whom you wrote, and Sirius Black, who is in Azkaban, after all, are not safe for you. They are larger than you, they have powerful magic you can't defend against. Vernon yelled at you _because_ he cares about you now. He doesn't want to see you suffer at the hands of unkind adults.

"Remember, you were attacked just a month ago. You could have been killed. It's a miracle you weren't. I would have been gone too. Vernon knows that. Exposing yourself to Skeeter as you did could make things worse, but he's not worried for himself. He's worried for _you_."

"So what can I do? I already wrote to Rita Skeeter, and to Sirius Black. I wanted to know about them!"

"I understand. When you meet with them, call on me, and I will help you to stay safe. I do not believe either of them will harm you physically. But Skeeter is devious. I remember her from the War. Sirius is bright, but careless. He will not harm you on purpose, but he might harm you out of stupidity."

"You want me to trust _you_ instead of them?"

"No. That would be foolish. But trust that I want you to stay alive, because I do. Your neck is my neck, as it were. I will not allow Skeeter to maneuver you into an unsafe situation, because it would be unsafe for me too."

"Okay. Thanks, I think." Harry couldn't understand the Shard's solicitude, but he couldn't reject it either, because he felt better now. Perhaps even a little bit hopeful.

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* * *

"Harry, it's Amelia Bones. We need to talk, when you're ready. There's no rush, but sooner is better."

It had been a day. Harry's panic had subsided, but now he still felt ashamed. He didn't know how to face the Dursleys. But maybe he could face Madame Bones. She had seemed nice, before.

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* * *

The cupboard door cracked open a bit, and an eye peered out. Amelia schooled her expression, trying to look gentle and motherly. A bit of a stretch for her, but she thought about how she would feel if it were Susan in the cupboard, and that helped.

Harry opened the door slowly and crawled out. His clothes were rumpled, and his eyes were puffy. He looked about warily and, realizing that Amelia was alone, relaxed a bit.

"Are you here to take me away?" he asked.

"No, Harry. Do you want to be taken away?"

"It's just, the Dursleys. They got so angry."

"Did they say they wanted to send you away?" Amelia asked, shocked.

"No. They were trying to be nice so I'd come out, though."

"Maybe they were just _being_ nice?"

"Maybe."

"Do you need a hug?"

"Yes."

"Come here, then."

Harry walked over to Amelia, hesitantly, and she wrapped him in the best hug she could manage. "I'm sorry you've been so worried, Harry. Your parents have been worried too. Vernon is terribly sorry that he lost his temper. He wants to apologize, but he realizes that it's up to you to decide what happens next."

"Up to me?" Harry asked, puzzled.

"Yes. Vernon shouldn't have lost his temper like that. He violated your trust. It's up to you to figure out how to trust him again."

Harry digested this for a moment.

"Vernon feels bad? But this was my fault!"

"Harry, you're a nine year old boy. We don't expect you to always do what a grown-up wizard would do. Sending a letter to Rita Skeeter was a little..." she paused, searching for a word. "Rash, shall we say."

"I'm sorry." Harry hung his head.

"No, that's not what I mean. It was rash, but it wasn't entirely unreasonable. You read her article. She seemed curious about you. You trusted that she was being honest, and you sent her a note."

"I didn't _entirely_ trust her, you know."

"Yes, that was a clever touch, having the return owl come to my office in the Ministry. Now she thinks you're in protective custody. Of course if she'd sent her own owl, it wouldn't have gone anywhere, and she knew it, but you know she put a magical trace on her response, to see if she could find out where you are."

"I wondered if that might be possible. You know we've been doing research on the reporters in all of the major magical newspapers, right?"

"Yes. So you know Ms. Skeeter's reputation?"

"She seems to be a very good writer."

"Yes. Of fiction."

Harry laughed.

"There, that's better. Look, Vernon was out of line, and you're well within your rights not to be speaking to him, but I have two pieces of advice for you."

"Okay."

"First, you know that my niece, Susan, is an orphan too, right? Of course, she had me, but her parents died."

"I didn't know. I'm sorry."

"I am as well. I lost all my siblings in the war. Susan's mother, Beatrice. Edgar, who had a family of his own. All of them lost. The last time I saw him, we quarreled. I knew he was working for the Order of the Phoenix, and I felt that they were being quite reckless."

"The Order of the Phoenix?"

"A vigilante group that Albus Dumbledore was running during the last war."

"You don't think much of Mr. Dumbledore, do you?"

"No. Quite. In any case, we exchanged harsh words, and then Edgar was gone. The next time I heard of him, it was an Auror come to tell me that he'd been killed, along with his children and his wife Lydia. I will always regret leaving things that way with him. He didn't even die in an Order operation—it was just another stupid Death Eater raid. So many people died in those raids, hardly any of them Order operatives," Amelia said, her tone wistful.

Harry was quite overcome with sympathy, and didn't respond for a while. Finally, he said "That's terrible. But you couldn't have known, could you?"

"That's just it. We never know. The ones we love in this world are here, and then one day, just like that, they're gone. I never thought that would be the last time I'd speak to Edgar. I was confident that we'd make it up, and all would be well. And then it wasn't."

"And so you're saying I have to forgive Uncle Vernon?"

"You can only do what you are ready to do, Harry. But when a quarrel happens, if there's a way to forgive, and move on, that's always best. I'm sorry to give you such a dark lecture, but you've suffered so much loss in your young life that I know you can understand what I mean."

Harry's eyes teared up, and his breath became a bit ragged as he hugged Amelia a little bit tighter. "Yes, I know what you mean. Thank you for telling me your story."

Amelia squeezed back. "You're welcome, young man. And now for the other bit of advice?"

"Okay." Amelia drew back and looked Harry in the eye, a serious expression on her face.

"Trust yourself. Writing to Ms. Skeeter was a bit rash, perhaps, but she is a force to be reckoned with, and she is not an objective reporter. She loves nothing more than a good story. If you can get her on your side, she will be a formidable ally. Never _trust_ her. That's not how she works. But treat her with kindness and respect, and you will find that she returns it in her own way."

"Is that how you treat her?"

"We're old friends. When I first met her, she was a waitress at Dunnings. It's a terrifyingly stodgy restaurant in Diagon Alley. Very posh in its way. All the old purebloods go there for Sunday brunch. I remember the day Rita got her first scoop, because a couple of old coots imagined that they could say what they wanted to a pretty young waitress and get away with it. A week later she was a reporter at the Prophet, and the rest, as we say, is history."

Her eyes on Harry, Amelia realized that she'd lost him a bit with her story of adult intrigue. "Oh dear, I believe I have bored you with my story of times long gone, dear boy. Do you think you can manage to patch things up with your family now?"

"Yes, Madame Bones," Harry answered.

"Oh stop! We are well past that formality, young man. You shall henceforth address me as Aunt Amelia."

"Very well, Aunt Amelia," Harry replied with a shy smile.

"Oh, before I forget. Here is Rita's response!" Amelia handed Harry a parchment envelope.

"Thank you, Aunt Amelia!" Harry responded with a cheeky smirk.

"You're quite welcome, dear," she responded, with a smirk of her own. "Ministry of Magic," she said, tossing a handful of powder into the fireplace. She waved goodbye and, with a swish of her cloak, vanished in a flash of green fire.

Harry wondered if her advice would be so generous when she learnt about his letter to Sirius Black, but he had decided that that was a discussion for another time.

* * *

As it happened, he didn't have to wait long for a response, although it wasn't quite what he'd expected. He'd begun cooking lunch as a peace offering, and there had been apologies and tearful embraces all around, so it appeared to have been a success. Harry kept the response from Rita to himself, reasoning that it would just inflame matters further to share it around.

After lunch he made his excuses and retired to his room upstairs. Petunia was a bit clingy, which he didn't entirely mind. It reassured him just a bit that perhaps he wasn't doomed to be ejected from the family for his carelessness, even if they did find out about Sirius. When he arrived upstairs, Hedwig was sitting on her perch, looking extremely pleased with herself, a letter tied to her leg.

Harry was surprised to discover that it was the same letter he'd sent, only there was a terrifyingly large paw-print on it. When he looked questioningly at Hedwig, she made a pleased little chuffing cluck, her belly puffing out and her head popping up just a bit. Harry quieted his mind and established a connection with her, and she showed him some puzzling images.

First a really creepy castle on a rock out at sea on a dark overcast day. Then a group of ghoul-like creatures floating around. Harry got the sense from Hedwig that she'd had to be very careful around them, and that she was pleased with herself for having given them the slip. Then a dog in a prison cell—why would anyone put a _dog_ in a prison?

"Sirius," came the name.

"Sirius is a dog? Isn't that a bit on the nose?" Harry asked, thinking of the "dog star." Hedwig chuffed impatiently. Images of the dog slipping out of the prison under a dark moon followed, and then the dog swimming in the cold ocean. "How is he going to survive?" Harry asked. Another chuff. Harry realized that he'd been right as he saw an image in Hedwig's mind of the dog sinking below the waves, far out away from the dark island. But then out of the deep came a dolphin, and Harry let out the breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

When the dog came in to the beach, Harry admired the quite spooky town, and the ruined Abbey, seen from Hedwig's vantage aloft. It seemed appropriate somehow that the castle, so dark and forbidding, would be close to such a spooky town. He was quite surprised when the dog turned into a man, with unkempt beard, hair completely out of control. The man looked completely knackered. And yet he had a look of gentle determination that quite reminded him of the dog. Harry realized that he hadn't met this friend of his parents because he'd been in prison. Azkaban was a prison! "What for?" he wondered. And why'd he break out just because he got a letter from me?

Showing an admirable consistency, Harry completely failed to wonder whether it was a good idea to be looking forward to meeting a prison escapee. He did, however, thank Hedwig for her story, and plied her with treats until she lost interest and, after nipping him affectionately, very pointedly closed her eyes and puffed up her feathers to shut out the light.

With that, Harry turned to his next task and opened the envelope from Rita Skeeter.

_Dear Harry, if that is truly who you are_, wrote Rita.

_I was intrigued by your note. I find myself either impressed or skeptical at your articulate words. Are you really only nine years old?_ Harry frowned. "Only?" he mouthed indignantly.

_I must confess that my knowledge of your parents is quite limited, since I graduated from Hogwarts perhaps one or two years before they arrived. I know that they were well-liked, and that your mother was quite brilliant. Your father, I heard, was a bit of a bully in school, but grew out of it._

_I'm afraid I do not know the details—this is just background that I picked up when writing about their tragic demise. It's important when writing stories about great figures to help the reader to connect to them, you know. And so these details are quite helpful. Sadly, one doesn't acquire enough of this detail to answer a request like yours._

_Looking through my notes, I do have some quotes from Alice and Frank Longbottom. I would suggest that you ask them directly, but unfortunately they were lost in the aftermath of the war, to the wands of some Death Eaters out for revenge. Perhaps we could meet, and I could share these notes with you._

_When I was doing my research, I ran into the same problem you now face: many of their best friends either died during the war, were incarcerated (like your godfather) or have since vanished. Remus Lupin would be your best bet, if you can find him. You may recall that I mentioned him in the article you responded to. I was able to track him down, but to get him to come meet you might be difficult._

_In any case, it would be my great pleasure to meet with you at a time of your convenience to discuss these issues. I would be very happy to help you in your search for your parents' friends. If Lupin is still working at that horrible Muggle store, I would be happy to try to arrange for a meeting._

_Thank you again for being in touch, Mr. Potter. Do write back soon!_

_Best Regards,_

_Rita Skeeter_

_The Daily Prophet_

Remembering Aunt Amelia's advice, Harry decided to think it over and get her advice about how to approach a meeting with Ms. Skeeter. Aunt Amelia said she couldn't be trusted, exactly, but perhaps she would have some ideas about how to meet with Ms. Skeeter and come away the better for it.


	18. To Say Nothing of the Dog

"Well, Uncle," said Penelope Greengrass. "There's been an interesting development."

"Oh?"

"Remember Sirius Black?"

"Who could forget?"

"He escaped."

"What? How?"

"We don't know. What we do know is that he didn't turn up last time there was a head count. There were two theories, one that he'd died and the Dementors had just tossed his body off the cliff without reporting it, which happens. The other, that he escaped."

"But you're sure he's alive?"

"Yes."

"What does the Ministry believe?"

"I was able to get the assignment to investigate, and so I've been able to push the story that he died and was disposed of. But the Dementors' stories don't really support this. Apparently he was in his cell at dinnertime, and then as the door opened, he vanished. The Dementors tend to assume that this means that the prisoner died, but they reported being unable to actually locate the body."

"And why would you report otherwise?"

"I see an opportunity here. If Black has escaped, it would be best for us if he were not captured. Remember his connections. He will want to re-establish contact with the Potter boy. If he attempts to do so, and succeeds, we can use that to capture Potter."

"I'm intrigued. Tell me more!"

~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~

* * *

Sirius slept the whole day through and into the next. Kreacher had prepared his bedroom, and it was quite comfortable. Sirius had been delighted to be able to dispose of his prison garb, and while he worried that he might be tracked to the house, he decided that he had to risk sleeping. He hadn't counted on sleeping quite so long, but since no Aurors seemed to be engaged in breaking the wards, he decided it had been worth it. He hadn't felt so rested in.. well, since before the War, really.

"Kreacher?" Sirius called?

_krak!_ Kreacher appeared. "What does Master Sirius require?" asked Kreacher.

"Breakfast?"

"Right away, Master." Kreacher vanished with another loud_krak!_

A few minutes later, Kreacher reappeared with another _krak!_ bearing a tray on which were several poached eggs, toast, butter, black currant jam, a pot of tea, some fried potatoes and tomatoes, and a copy of the Daily Prophet. Sirius' eyes bugged out at the sight of so much food. "Thank you, Kreacher! This is fantastic!"

"Master is welcome. Will there be anything else?"

Sirius noticed that Kreacher was wearing an odd locket, made of gold, inlaid with green gems in the shape of the letter S. Curious. "No, thank you, Kreacher. That will be all." _krak!_

Sirius began to eat, slowly. He felt he could use the food, yet it was more than his stomach could easily encompass. While he was eating, he read the Prophet. On the front page, the headline read "Sirius Black believed dead at Askaban!" Beneath the headline was a photograph of Sirius in prison garb, looking young and angry.

The article quoted "sources at the Ministry" who had investigated Sirius disappearance from the prison and concluded that "most likely Black died, as many prisoners do, from despair." It listed the other surviving members of the Black family, including Narcissa and Bellatrix, and mentioned that Gringotts would not speculate on what would become of the Black estate now that Sirius was gone.

"As the heir of House Black, Sirius is presumed living until some member of House Black appears to contest that presumption, and then magic will decide. Of course, if a pretender to the head of House Black attempts to put on the House ring and it turns out that Sirius Black is still alive, the results would be.. unfortunate," the Prophet reported.

Sirius considered what to do about this. It would be unfortunate if Narcissa were to put on the ring. If her intention was simply to do her duty to the house, she might escape unscathed, but that wasn't really Narcissa's character—she'd claim the inheritance because she liked money. That could be a painful experience for her, and although there was little love lost between the cousins, Sirius did not want to cause her that kind of pain and disfigurement.

"Kreacher?" Sirius called. _krak!_ "Can you take a message to Bonehammer at Gringotts?"

"Of course, Master. Is Master going to finally do his duty to House Black?" Kreacher looked partly worried, and partly gratified at this prospect.

"We shall see." Sirius dashed off a note and handed it to Kreacher, who disappeared again. _krak!_

"Now, then. What did Harry say. The Rookery." Sirius began to compose a note to Harry, taking nibbles of breakfast and sips of tea from time to time. His quills were in surprisingly good shape after so many years of disuse, and the preservative charms that came with his ink bottles hadn't worn out yet. His hand, however, tired quickly as a result of years of disuse, and his penmanship had deteriorated.

When he was done writing, he went upstairs to the Owlery, where he found a family of barn owls. The largest came up to him and stuck its leg out expectantly, so Sirius tied a letter to it and thanked the owl. The owl took off into the sky. Sirius went downstairs and consequently missed seeing a bolt of red strike the owl, which tumbled out of the sky, letter fluttering from its nerveless leg.

Soon after he returned to the bedroom, Kreacher appeared with a letter.

_Sirius Black,_ began the letter.

_We are unsurprised to learn that you have survived your journey from the foul rock. Because of your unusual situation, we have enclosed a portkey which you can use to come to Gringotts. It is a two-way portkey: when you invoke it, it will record the starting location, and return you to it when our business has concluded. Invoke it by reciting "Delenda Est."_

_In anticipation of profitable business,_

_Bonehammer_

_Senior account executive, Gringotts_

"Well, here goes nothing," Sirius thought, and, taking the portkey (an extremely corroded cylindrical key with "Bramah" enscribed on its body) he recited the activation phrase, "Delenda Est." He'd have to look it up when he got back.

The world spun about him for a few moments; fortunately Gringotts was quite close, as he might otherwise have lost his breakfast. He found himself in a modern, well-lit room with a stone table in the center, surrounded by conference room chairs. A goblin stuck her head in the door at the far end of the room, saw that Sirius was there, and said "one moment, please, Mr. Black."

Sirius sat down at the table and waited. After some time, the door opened again, and a goblin entered. "Bonehammer! You look well!" said Sirius.

"I wish I could say the same of you," said Bonehammer. "You look like a dog's breakfast. Azkaban was not kind to you, I take it."

"No. But I should recover eventually."

"What is your plan?"

"First order of business, the Prophet reported that I'm the heir to House Black. Is that correct?"

"Yes. Your father was never named heir, and your grandfather named you. Because your father wasn't an heir, he couldn't do anything to change it when your grandfather died. So although I'm sure neither of them would be happy about it were they still with us, you are indeed the heir."

"I'm not sure I'm happy about it either. I could have lived with Uncle Alphard's fortune and left the Black fortune alone. But it would be unfortunate if it went to Narcissa or Bellatrix."

"Yes, I'm sure we can imagine how _they_ would spend it. Very well, here is the ring. Let's see what happens."

The ring was a reasonably elegant thing, gold. An emerald was inset in a channel (no frilly basket sticking up for a head-of-house ring). The ring was tapered with a trapezoidal profile, wider end inside. Engraved on the inside was a variant of the family motto that Sirius had not previously seen: "Tojours Puissant." How odd! Around the sides of the trapezoid were engraved many tiny runes, the meaning of which Sirius, his memory shot from years in Azkaban, could not make out.

He slipped the band over his right ring finger. It glowed briefly and adjusted itself, almost like a dog getting comfortable in its bed, until it fit snugly but comfortably around Sirius' finger.

"That's it, then. You've been recognized as the head of house," said Bonehammer. "What now?"

"I suspect I could use the services of a solicitor."

"I suspect you are right. You realize that if you present yourself to a solicitor, the solicitor will have to reveal that you are alive."

"I know. How long will I have?"

"The rule is that notification must occur within the fortnight."

"That should do."

Bonehammer snapped her fingers, and the door opened again. "Fetch me Hassle," she said. She added, looking at Sirius, "this could take a few minutes. While we wait, may I ask how you escaped?"

"I had assistance from an owl and a dolphin."

"Intriguing. Had you and the dolphin been previously acquainted?"

"Not to my knowledge. The owl belongs to Harry Potter, but I suspect the dolphin is a free agent. I honestly have no idea where it came from, but without its help I would have drowned, if I hadn't frozen first."

"How fortunate. You will have to find some way to thank the dolphin, then."

"Yes, I think so. What do you get a dolphin, though?"

"I understand they are partial to herring."

"Seems a bit cheap, though. This dolphin really did save my life."

"Well, perhaps fate will intervene. We shall see."

"Indeed."

At that moment, the door opened, and a tall, middle-aged witch entered. "Mr. Black, I presume?" she asked.

"Yes. And you are.. Madam Hassle?"

"Athabasca Hassle, at your service. You may call me Athaba."

"Thank you, and you may call me Sirius. I suspect we will be doing a fair bit of work together. I know Bonehammer would not have brought you in if you weren't the best."

"I hope you are right, Mr. Black. I don't know what we will need to do to get started on your case—I'll have to fetch the trial records, of course. When the Ministry finds you've escaped, they will want to arrest you; it would be best if we finish our preparation before that time comes. Do you have a location you can go to that is secure from location spells?"

"Yes. I shan't tell you where, of course."

"Naturally."

"Also, there won't be any transcripts."

"How is that possible?"

"There was no trial."

"WHAT? You were in Azkaban for SEVEN YEARS with no trial?"

"Yes."

"That's... quite shocking."

"At this point I'm more disappointed than shocked," Sirius said wryly.

"Quite. Well, then. Did you kill Pettigrew?"

"No. He's not dead, as far as I know."

"Interesting. What about the muggles?"

"What muggles?"

"You were accused of killing Pettigrew and twelve muggles."

"Oh my. I remember an explosion. I was just talking to Pettigrew, trying to get him to tell me why he did it."

"Did what?"

"Betrayed the Potters."

"That's going to be a hard story to sell. Everyone knows you were the secret keeper."

"Everyone's wrong. Pettigrew was the secret keeper."

"Hm. You will have to testify under Veritaserum in order for there to be any hope of proving that."

"I can do that."

Athaba looked impressed. "Very well. We shall need to meet again to go over the details, but I shall have to do some research first. Can we meet again this time next week?"

"Yes. Bonehammer, can you give me another portkey of the same type? I shan't be staying at my current location much longer—it's too obvious."

"Use the same one. It will reset when you return, so that you can use it the same way, with a different return destination."

"Same activation phrase?"

"Of course."

"Very well. May the blood of your enemies decorate your walls, et cetera."

"Very funny," said Bonehammer.

"Not at all! I'm Sirius!" Sirius spoke the activation phrase, and after another vertiginous whirl above London, found himself back in Grimmauld Place.

~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~

* * *

"Kreacher?"

_krak!_ "Yes, master?"

"Do you remember where you took me last time I left?"

"To the home of the blood traitors?"

"Yes, precisely."

"Kreacher remembers it well. Kreacher was punished severely for answering your call."

Sirius was taken aback—it had never occurred to him that his request to Kreacher would have such repercussions. "Kreacher, I'm terribly sorry. I should have realized that I was putting you at risk like that."

"It is Kreacher's duty to serve the Black family, and to be punished when the Black family chooses. There is no need for apology."

"Nevertheless, Kreacher. I was never at all kind to you as a child."

"MASTER NEED NOT BE KIND TO KREACHER!" screeched Kreacher angrily.

"I'm sorry..."

"MASTER NEED NOT APOLOGIZE TO KREACHER."

"Kreacher, stop."

"Kreacher must obey."

"We will speak of this further. But for now, take me to the Pottery."

_krak!_

~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~

* * *

Penelope cast _Levicorpus_ as the owl plummeted, arresting its fall before it could crater on the pavement outside of Grimmauld Place. Delicately, she plucked the letter from the owl's foot and cast a warming charm to unseal the envelope. She cast _Portus_ on the letter within. A delicate warming charm combined with a pressing charm was enough to renew the seal, and she tied the envelope back to the owl's leg. She cast a notice-me-not charm on herself, and then _Renervate_ on the owl. The owl got up, confused, looked around, and, seeing nothing out of order, took once more to wing and flew off a little to the south of west.

~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~/~

* * *

Harry and Dudley tumbled out of the fireplace. Because of the threat of attack, they were commuting to school through a fireplace connected to the floo network. It had been installed in a steam tunnel under the school before the term began. Both boys wore watches that were charmed so that when tapped, a notice-me-not charm would activate. This enabled the cousins to slip away unnoticed into the basement of the school, where children were not customarily allowed.

The school itself had been warded with tamper-resistant detection wards that, when triggered by an unknown wizard crossing them, would trigger a portkey in each boy's watchband, returning them instantly home. If this were to happen, obliviators would have to go to the school to cover up the incident, but this was deemed safer than any other alternative. There was no way to ward the entire school with strong protective wards as it was not on a ley line and was not Harry's home.

Bella, Vernon and Petunia were all gathered at the table, reading the day's Prophet and talking amongst themselves. "Do you think he's really dead?" Petunia asked.

"It's hard to believe. The article is a bit thin on details. The bit about Gringotts doesn't tell us anything—they will never reveal information of that sort. It almost sounds like a cover-up. It's very embarrassing that Sirius escaped, if he did."

Harry's ears perked up. "Who escaped?"

"Sirius Black. A Death Eater. He was imprisoned at Azkaban for killing a wizard and twelve muggles shortly after Voldemort was killed. It's believed that the wizard, Peter Pettigrew, was trying to capture him because he'd betrayed your parents."

"Sirius wasn't a Death Eater," Harry blurted without thinking. "_Oh dear,_" he thought, as all adult eyes turned to him.

"What do you mean?" asked Bella.

"I just know, okay? There is no way that he could be a Death Eater."

Vernon grabbed the phone and rang up Colin, who answered quickly. "Colin, can you come over? I think we need to have a conversation about the horcrux."

Harry didn't hear the answer, but Vernon hung up, and moments later Colin stepped gracefully out of the fireplace, brushing a tiny bit of ash from his shoulder as he stepped into the room.

"Is everybody okay?" Colin asked.

"Yes," Vernon answered. "But Harry..."

"I've been in communication with the Shard," Harry admitted.

"The Shard? That's an interesting name for it."

"That's what it calls itself."

"Has it been struggling with you?"

"It tried, but it seems that occlumency is highly effective against it."

"Good, I'm glad to hear it. But you know that it's not safe to trust the Shard, right? It can still trick you, even if it can't control you."

"Perhaps, but I can sense its emotions. I think I would be able to tell if it were lying to me."

"I don't know how we'd test that. Vernon, what brought this to your attention?"

"Harry said that he knew Sirius Black wasn't a Death Eater. How else would he 'know'?"

"Is that right, Harry?"

"Yes. I knew about Sirius from..." the wards stopped him from speaking for a moment, so he changed what he was going to say. "From the article in the Prophet."

The adults looked at each other with worried expressions. "What were you going to say before you stopped yourself," asked Colin?

"I can't say. But it's nothing to do with the Shard."

"Are you under some kind of spell?"

"Yes, but it's nothing bad. It's... family magic," he was able to sputter.

"Family secrets?"

"Yes."

"You're not going to be able to tell me anything about them?"

"No."

"Is there a person who told you these secrets?"

"No."

"Did you find out at Gringotts?"

"No."

"Did you go to a family home of some sort?"

Harry tried to answer and couldn't.

"Say no more. Vernon, I don't think we need to worry about this, although it's certainly interesting. Harry, you should be cautious about any old properties that aren't in good repair. If there's anything that seems the least bit unsound, stay out. We can figure it out when you are older."

Harry tried to nod, failed, and just shrugged, with an apologetic smile.

"Oh, hm. Did you go into the cottage at Godric's Hollow?" Colin remembered reading about the memorial in the article, and the picture of the cottage, left in its destroyed state.

Harry tried to indicate that he had not, but couldn't.

"Ah, okay. I'll take that as a yes. I get the sense that that place is really not safe, so you should stay out of it until you can get help or until you're older."

Harry again failed to do anything more than shrug and smile apologetically.

"Back to the Shard, then. What has happened with it?"

"Well, first it was pretty mean. But it wasn't very good at it."

"What do you mean."

"It tried to get me to call it Lord Voldemort at first, but it hasn't tried in a while, and doesn't seem to care anymore. It tried to cause me pain once, when I talked about telling people about it. But that only worked briefly, until I occluded. It was a bit disgusted.

"Later on I asked it about Sirius, and it told me about him. He refused to take the Dark Mark, and Voldemort didn't want him once he realized he wouldn't obey. He left home because of it. Voldemort tortured his mother, because she was the one who tried to get Sirius to take it. She used some kind of Imperial curse."

"Imperius. Interesting. What else?"

"He told me about his life. He was an orphan. He said that the Dursleys love me, and that I shouldn't worry. That was after I had my panic attack."

"Hm, well, it could be playing a long game. I think we can't assume it was telling the truth, Harry. I'm sorry."

"That's okay, but _I_ think he was telling the truth."

"That's fine. If Sirius is still alive, maybe we'll find out someday."

"I hope so."


End file.
